A Scandal in Burleith
by ausland
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been among the living for months when Mycroft approaches with a case that wouldn't hold much of interest if it hadn't been for its location. Important documents are missing and a political scandal in on the rise- in America, which is the current home of Irene Adler. Who, incidentally, is playing a key role in the investigation. Sequel to Let's Have Dinner. SH/IA
1. Prologue

**I'm back, with more Adlock!**

**This was something I was originally opposed to, because with Sherlock I've found I'm able to be more... artistic and really capture the depth of emotion and love/lust that is Adlock. Here, I'm trying something new- a longer Adlock fic, with about five chapters or so. (I know that's what I always say and I end up with 100k+ but I'm 90% sure I mean it this time.) **

**BEFORE YOU READ: This is really a sort of SEQUEL to another of my Adlock fics- _Let's Have Dinner._ That is my version of canon, neatly spelled out for you. :) Quite basically, I believe that every time Irene texted Sherlock "let's have dinner" they actually had dinner. (You'll see. Go read it!)**

**For the record, Burleith is (according to Wikipedia) an upscale neighborhood in Washington D.C. **

**Enjoy. I have the next chapter done, and will upload it as soon as I'm done with the second chapter, or Saturday, whichever comes first.**

**ALSO: This is the prologue, which is the only part of the story which is partially in third person present. The rest in is third person past tense.**

* * *

After he died, Sherlock Holmes sought his redemption in the arms of Irene Adler.

It made perfect sense, to him. Irene Adler had played a part in his downfall, and she would play a part when he rose from the ashes and reclaimed what was his. She was as much a ghost as he was. How strange, that once they had been together and alive and thought themselves immortal.

That was their folly. When they fell so hard they burst into flames, when there was nothing but ash and regret and pain, that was when they truly knew how foolish they had been to ever think themselves gods.

_"I thought I might never see you again." Her eyes greedily drink in the features of his face. He can feel the gentle sweep of her gaze on the many bruises that mar his complexion._

_"Because the papers say I'm dead?" He quirks up one eyebrow, and she makes a small noise in the back of her throat, a laugh and a moan and sob, as if to say, 'You know me better than that.'_

_She lets him into the generous flat, turning to find herself trapped against her own door. "Because I knew who you were facing," she whispers. "Sherlock-"_

_"Moriarty is dead." He lifts a hand to her face, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers._

_"Then why aren't- John, I'm guessing?" The flash of terrible anger on his face confirms her guess._

_"And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." The names sound like a mantra already, a purpose, a vendetta._

_"What do you need from me?" There are many, many things that Sherlock Holmes needs from her. But as any man (for now he is a mere man- Sherlock Holmes has been proven mortal in the most fatal of ways) wishes to prolong the inevitable, Sherlock slants his mouth over Irene's and presses her against the door because it hurts too much to think clearly._

But when he had finished his mission, when he had thrust aside the shroud and walked like Lazarus into the familiar kitchen of 221B Baker Street, his lover remained a specter. It seemed for the best- it had been too easy, too tempting, to give in to the grey softness of anonymity when being dead meant being with Irene Adler.

_The last night they are together, Irene cooks a simple meal and afterward they sit together on her couch with identical glasses of crimson wine. "You want me to stay. Here," Sherlock says. His voice takes her back to Karachi, to when they were intertwined under white cotton sheets already feeling the ache of their separation._

_Irene smiles at him sadly. "What I want and what I know will happen are two different things, Sherlock." She knows all too well that nothing works out the way it is supposed to. That men and women who think themselves impervious and indestructible can smash to pieces on a sidewalk or lose their heads in a heartbeat._

_He looks pained. "It- it makes- I-"_

_"Shh," she hushes him. "I understand."_

_He has the look on his face that she now knows means he wants to kiss her. "You are the only one who ever would." He's telling her she's special, she's loved, she's the most important person in the world to him._

_And she understands. "I know. When do you leave?" How long does she have with the one person who makes her feel complete? Tu me manques, the French say. You are missing from me. Irene and Sherlock are part of one consciousness and while they can function part, like the two halves of a brain with a severed corpus callosum, it's never quite right when they are apart. _

_"Tomorrow morning." She watches his throat as he drains his wine glass. There is a scar there that wasn't present two year ago. Or, for that matter, two months ago. _

_She chooses to make the best of their situation. "Then we have sixteen hours." Irene lets her lips curve up in a slow smile._

_Sherlock's eyes flash, and his fingers tighten around the stem of the empty wine glass. "Seventeen. Late morning flight back to England." She doesn't suppose he'll miss the States. London, with all her abysmal weather and smoggy skies, is Sherlock's home. Most days Irene misses England as well, even the dreary rain filled days and the false sun that brightens but does not warm._

_"Just- promise me we'll meet again." The words escape her mouth before she can rein them in, but Irene knows that they are not a mistake. They've avoided making any promises. But now Moriarty's network has been successfully disabled and Sherlock can return to his home._

_He frowns, turning to her not even aware he's raising his voice. "I thought you understood how dangerous-"_

_"I do," she interrupts._

_"Then...?" Sherlock is, as ever, his remarkably sarcastic self. He drawls the word, extending it to comment on her mental facilities, her state of mind, and quite possibly the girl she kissed in the third grade._

_She tries to explain. "I've realized that some things are more important than-"_

_"Your life?" He is angry at her, for clearly and explicitly stating that she values what they have over her safety. It has always been their deal- they know it, but never acknowledge how much the other means to them._

_"I'm already dead," says Irene, as blasé as years as a dominatrix to the highest of high class has made her._

_Sherlock clenches his jaw, and she admires the form of his features absently in some corner of her mind. "Not to me." When their eyes meet, she doesn't bother to hide her shock. He followed her lead, and acknowledged it too. _

_"As long as you live, I will be alive in your memory," Irene whispers, recalling her lover's eyes memorizing every inch of her body, learning it and relearning it again._

_And although he never promised aloud, she knows he did silently._

Now, as Sherlock sits in Mycroft's office, loyal John faithfully at his side, it seems as if those two years he was dead are nothing but a dream. If it was a dream, there was surely someone above laughing at it, for what kind of mind weaves the worst nightmares with threads of fantasy?

Hunting down Moriarty's men had not been easy. Finding their secrets was harder. Sherlock supposed he must he must be thankful that for every five men of Moriarty's he found, four would have enough skeletons piled in their closets to earn years of jail time.

But in his time on the run, he had masterminded the deaths of sixteen men and personally killed twenty three.

Twenty three times he had stumbled back to Irene's flat, and twenty three times she accepted him without fear, without judgment. She let him talk as much as he needed to, she let him sleep for three days in her large bed, she let him make love to her over and over again because he needed to forget.

Mycroft smiles thinly at Sherlock. "So, little brother? Has my case captured your interest?"

Sherlock is about to respond in the negative when his mind pulls a particular facet of the conversation to the forefront of his mind. The case is in America, with the American government. Missing documents, possible scandal. In other words, just the place for a dominatrix with a penchant for collecting state secrets.

He sneers at his brother, and rises. "Perhaps. Text me the details."

* * *

**Let me know what you thought. Again, it is pretty important to the story later on for you to have an understand of what happened in _Let's Have Dinner._**

**This was short, I know, but it is only the prologue. :)**

**I'll see you later this week! (If you post adlock on tumblr, let me know!)**


	2. The Secretary of State

**Hello! I hope everyone is having a good week so far. :) **

**I'm as happy with this chapter as I am going to get... it is short, but it sets up the main mystery/plot points. Thank you very much to the lovlies who reviewed. I only hope to live up to expectations. Sherlock's deductions are great fun.**

**And again, as it was in _Let's Have Dinner,_ when Sherlock and Irene are speaking directly to one another and it is followed with _italics_ the _italics _represent what the person speaking intends the person listening to interpret from what they said. **

**And with no further ado...**

_**Chapter One**_

The man in charge of the investigation reminded Sherlock of Lestrade only in the way he carried himself and barked out orders. Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Cooper was quite tall, with the heavy jowls of a bull dog and the tenacity and beaded eyes of a wolverine. Of course, within a minute Sherlock knew more about him than he probably knew about himself. _Trying to quit smoking, slight drinking problem, left handed, poor eyesight in the right eye, public school, lower class background, some kind of military training, prefers pistol to rifle, probably not an efficient marksman which was why he was assigned to a cushy job such as this, friends in high places, under quite a lot of pressure from above which is exacerbating his two ulcers. Also having an affair with the secretary on the third floor. Two children. Prefers coffee to tea, takes it with far too much sugar and no cream. Wearing his second best suit- probably used the first best one recently meeting with whomever needs our aid- obviously someone of importance to the American government. And with ties to Mycroft, if John and I are being recruited._

John had unconsciously fallen into a soldier's stance, almost the moment they arrived in the building. It made Sherlock want to grin, as much as he hid it. He found that after his long separation from his friend, the doctors small quirks were suddenly more endearing than they were before his fall.

Mycroft (or rather, Mycroft's secretary) had booked John and Sherlock on the first flight out of London to Washington D. C., with instructions to sleep on the plane. Without any information pertinent to the case, both of them did so.

Now, Agent Cooper was escorting them through a rather nondescript building on the city's outskirts. Sherlock had picked it up in an instant- _far more expensive cars very distinctly not parked in the building's parking lot, more security cameras facing the doors, inability to see into any window from the street_- following the agent with John at his side.

He managed to contain himself until they reached the board room, where three other people were waiting. All were dressed as professionally as Agent Cooper.

"We'll be working with Emily Roque, Oliver Dommer, and Dan Fallet. Not as many people as we're used to, but this case is extremely confidential." Each stood in turn, nodding. Cooper continued. "This is Sherlock Holmes and- uh-"

"Doctor John Watson," John interrupted. He and Sherlock shared a silent and mutual feeling of annoyance. "Pleasure to meet you."

Cooper gestured for everyone to sit. "We're pretty much all here," he said, glancing at the clock opposite him. "Diane will be coming shortly. You two need to be brought up to speed, correct?"

"Just the details," Sherlock drawled. _Diane?_ "This obviously has to do with the American equivalent of the Department of Foreign Affairs. John?"

John sat up. "I think it's called the Department of State, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded, scanning the room for any more clues. "Ah, yes. So I'm guessing missing documents. The only questions I have are who the documents were stolen from, the contents of the documents, and the effects, should the documents be leaked or sold to the highest bidder." He was met with blank stares. "It's obvious," he said, speaking quickly. "The British government would not have been involved if it wasn't a matter of international concern, and considering the current state of international tension and logo on Agent Roque's coffee cup, it would have be the American Department of State. John and I were not brought to a crime scene- yes, it could be because this case is already a day old, but judging from the thinness of that folder it's papers that are missing, not people."

Two spots of red appeared high on the Ms. Roque's cheeks as she glanced at her cup. "Well, you do seem to be as good as they said."

Sherlock regarded the room smugly. "So the documents?"

Cooper cleared his throat nervously. "Well, uh- yes, there were documents. Stolen from the home of U. S. Secretary of State Thomas Harper under strange circumstances."

"That answers only one of my questions, Agent," Sherlock said, allowing his impatience to show. "What were their contents, and who would they anger or incite to war?"

One of the male agents coughed, drawing Sherlock's attention. _Rich. High class background, private school education. Married- two or three years at best. Second marriage. Expensive suit, tailored. Three terriers. Meeting with his wife-or perhaps girlfriend- later today._ "We are not at luxury to release the contents of the documents at this time."

Sherlock met John's eye. _Shall we?_

John inclined his head. _We shall._

With a screech Sherlock slid his chair back and stood. "Then we are leaving. Now." It was a move he and John had down pat- they didn't waste their time with too many mysteries. As Sherlock had said to Mycroft once- he was used to mystery at one end of his case and two was just _too much._

Cooper half rose, turning red. "But your brother-"

"Is my brother and not my handler," Sherlock bit out, hint of his real anger in his voice. "Either you give me the information I need to work with or Dr. Watson and I go on our way."

Behind him a door opened, and the tapping of high heels could be heard. Sherlock didn't bother turning around- he was maintaining eye contact with Cooper._ This man reacts to shows of weakness and dominance._

"I suggest you do as he says, Mason," a lightly amused voice said. _British, female- familiar._ "You want Sherlock Holmes on your side."

One would think that a million emotions would go through Sherlock Holmes when he hears her voice but there are only two: joy (not love he doesn't love anyone he's Sherlock Holmes) and fear.

John had whirled around, hand going to the small of his back where he occasionally kept a gun. Sherlock turned slowly.

Irene Adler stood before them, a smile of wicked delight on her face. She was fully in her 'The Woman' persona, hair up in an elaborate coiffure, expertly applied makeup, and designer white dress and high heels. Sherlock drank in the sight of her, scanning her features greedily.

_Irene. _

It was like a settling, in the region of his chest and lower ribcage, one that made no logical sense whatsoever- the actual physical heart had nothing to do with emotion. Still, when The Woman smiled at him, his mind was paused and awash with nothing but memories of Irene, of her and her alone. _Laughing, the taste of red wine in a dim restaurant, the way her hair feels when it's spread on my chest, the way the crook of her knee tastes different than the inside of her elbow, the way she always manages to leave a mark on my skin…_

John was ready to say something, choke out an exclamation. _He wants to say something about her being not dead- do these people know about her past, I doubt it. John can't say anything. _Sherlock put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "_You_ have been brought in on this?" Sherlock asked, almost incredulous.

"It's nice to see you too, love," she replied, a bit of a pout appearing on her lips. "Didn't Mason mention me?" _Hullo, dear. I'm back to my old tricks._

Sherlock's intense gaze landed next on Cooper. "Well?" His voice and eyes look more like they did a year ago when he was hunting down Moriarty's men, angry and piercing and demanding.

"Diane Reler," Cooper said, subdued. "She's- uh-" _Stupid Puritanical upbringings. American's really can't handle anything to do with sex with grace. It's either their lascivious rap singers or blushing maidens. _

"Sherlock knows what my profession is," Irene said, a wicked gleam in her navy eyes. "Hello, Dr. Watson." Immediately Sherlock was the focus of several eyes, all wonder how, exactly, he knew The Woman. In a professional sense, in a more deviant manner… it was fodder for their imaginations. Irene like controlling the way people thought that way- Sherlock should have seen it coming. _Although they should probably consider that if she admits to knowing me in public, I cannot be a client of hers. I'm sure there are rules about those sort of things._

By Sherlock's side John has just finished processing. "Uh- so, not dead, then?" Sherlock wanted to groan in frustration. _No, John, obviously not. _

"Thanks to him," Irene said, nodding once at Sherlock. "Sherlock didn't mention me either?" _Uh oh. You didn't tell John, did you? Naughty boy._

John looked up at Sherlock, and although the private detective was never good at reading emotions, he knew the former soldier well enough to see the hurt, the anger, and the frustration. "No, he didn't," John said curtly. "Sherlock, are we taking this case or not?"

Sherlock, still feeling dazed, nodded. "We are," he said. "Ir-" He stopped himself. "Diane?"

"Diane," Irene said firmly. "Elaine wasn't working out for me." He can rearrange her name mentally in an instant. Diane Reler, Irene Adler. Elaine Derr was the name he had chosen for her, when he had given her American papers in a hotel room in Karachi years ago. He prefers Irene to Diane or even Elaine. Her real name.

Obviously the other people in the room were completely confused. Sherlock simply stared at Irene, and she returned the look.

_You, here?_ He says it in the rise of an eyebrow, barely perceptible.

_Apparently. Mycroft?_ She answered with a small smile, then flicked her eyes to the government logo on the wall.

_Yes. Does he..._Sherlock nodded slightly, then tilted his head questioningly and lifting his eyebrows,

_No. _She shook her head in a small but decisive movement.

_It's good to see you again._ He let his face soften and his lips smile thinly.

_And you, my love._ She had no compunctions about letting her emotions flood her face for a swift second before she strode to the chair next to Sherlock. He obligingly pulled it out for her, and she sat neatly.

"Let us begin, fully this time," Irene said, capturing everyone's attention. "Sherlock, Dr. Watson, a client of mine took home an extremely important letter with him last night. It was from-"

"Ms. Reler!" It was the woman from the Department of State who made the exclamation. "It is-"

Irene's eyes flashed with anger and she turned on the woman. "Agent Roque, if you want the document recovered, you will give Sherlock Holmes all the information he needs, and _thank_ him when he solves the case for you. Now, I offered to help you, and to help you, I need to help Sherlock. Is that understood?"

Sherlock thought it might very well be the tone she used when working- while her voice was still fluid and lovely, there was a thread of iron running through it, just daring the other woman to test her.

Agent Roque shook her head once. Irene smiled, showing her teeth. "That's a dear. Now, Sherlock, the letter was from a man in a rather high position in foreign government." He was about to tell her to be clear with him, before he realized that she would give him enough hints to detangle the information himself. She was confident in his abilities of deduction, and he was confident in both her clues and his own ability to read her. He nodded, and she continued.

Before long, he had a very complete picture of the situation both America and Britain were in. _If this document is leaked to _any_ other world leader- European, Asian, Middle Eastern- it would be a disaster. The United States would be pulled into a war they do not belong in, over issues they do not care about. For that matter, Great Britain is obligated to assist the other side and would therefore be pitted against the United States. France would have to choose a side in the conflict, they have colonial ties as well, and then Germany and Russia and China may very well want to enter- and the world is not in the proper position for another world war. Who knows what the North Koreans would do- atomic weapons would surely be used…_

Sherlock reached for a pad of paper near John's elbow, and gestured for a pen. John handed him one, and Sherlock quickly scrawled a name and shoved the paper toward Irene. She glanced at it, and nodded.

He was quiet, eyes closed as he thought through various avenues. "Tell me the circumstances of the disappearance, _leaving nothing out._"

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but he heard Cooper take a breath and flapped a hand at him. "No not you. You." He turned his head toward Irene.

"Thomas Harper is the U.S. Secretary of State," Irene said, and Sherlock let his mind run to the smoothness of her voice. "He is a client of mine, as is his wife Helen. They both know their spouse is cheating on them, but they do not know with whom, and I intend to keep it that way. Now, the Harpers dined together at half past seven, and afterward Helen went to the theatre and I had an appointment with Thomas, at his house. Not in his bedroom, mind you, but in a guest room of the house. The documents were in a locked safe in the master bedroom. Our appointment ended at nine, and Helen should have returned from the theatre at quarter to ten. Thomas discovered the papers were missing at eight o'clock yesterday morning, and subsequently called me, thinking, mistakenly, that I had taken them."

Sherlock let out a low chuckle. "Did you?"

He opened his eyes to see Irene shrug. "Of course not. Considering my… reputation, it was a reasonable assumption, but I would never steal from a client." _No, she would just take pictures. I'd bet that an image of those documents are on her newest camera phone._

"Who had access to the room?" Sherlock asked, a thousand theories racing about his mind palace. _Maid, butler, wife, Irene, spy, cook, husband…_

Irene ticked each one off on a slender finger of her hand, which drew Sherlock's concentration for a microsecond. "Thomas, Helen, Helen's maid, and Thomas'… well, in London we'd call him a butler, but here he's really more a secretary…"

"Alibis?" Sherlock asked.

Cooper broke in. "Secretary was at home having his weekly poker game with his buddies. We have security footage of the maid shopping, and then she returned home and was there for the remainder of the night. Both Harpers claim to be light sleepers-" he glanced toward Irene.

She laughed and shook her head. "Sorry. I wouldn't know." Her gaze flicked toward Sherlock, and away again. _She knows I sleep like the dead. She knows that when I'm not very tired I sometimes snore and when I am exhausted I sleep like I'm dead. She knows that when we are together I fall asleep holding her and I hate letting her go and when she tries to get up to go to the bathroom I just hold her tighter until she has to get creative in escaping. She knows that the best way to get up is to tickle me and she knows the one spot where I'm ticklish. I'm the only one who she sleeps with, now._

That instantly calmed the irritating nugget of doubt that had been resting uncomfortably within Sherlock's ribcage. _I'm the only one who she sleeps with._ "So the documents were stolen in the brief time between Mr. Harper arriving home from work and retiring with Mrs. Harper."

"Approximately four hours," Irene answered, smiling thinly. "That is my belief."

Sherlock stood, sweeping his coat over his arm. "I'll contact you when I have information," he told the assembled group. "Or if you have any news, call- John, give them your number." It was clear the from the look that John gave him that the doctor was upset with Sherlock, but he scrawled his cell number on the back of a business card and handed it to the nearest agent.

"If you would accompany John and me?" Sherlock asked Irene, shrugging into his coat.

She gave him the same smile she had given the woman agent, showing her teeth. "I would be delighted," she purred.

"Where are you going?" Cooper blustered, rising as they did. "I thought you-"

"I am a private detective and therefore have more freedom than you do," Sherlock answered curtly. "I work in my own ways, which work. John has your phone number- we'll let you know when we solve the case. Now I need to talk with the Secretary, with his wife, and with the servants. I must observe them, now. Good day."

He swept out of the room, Irene and John at his heels, feeling the most extraordinary sensation of excitement and happiness. First, the case. It was high profile, and although Sherlock normally cared nothing for the importance of his cases, the stakes of this one were particularly tempting. War, scandal, the outrage of his brother… Documents disappearing from a locked and guarded house, from a locked safe, either in the middle of the night or while the man of the house was indeed in the house (although otherwise occupied). It was one he would have remembered anyway, even if Irene hadn't appeared.

Irene. When he had seen her Sherlock had been consumed with the desire to press her against him and his lips against hers. That desire was only second to his need to talk with her, to learn what had happened in the months since they had seen each other and talked face to face. He _needed_ to have the sweet release that came from not having to dumb himself down or censor his words, he craved the harmony he felt with they lay together, limbs heavy from passion spent and minds free to twist and tangle and dance along anything. The companionship he found in John eased the pangs of loneliness he sometimes felt, but seeing her in the flesh brought to life all the urges that Irene Adler inspired.

Sherlock wanted to know the mischief she had gotten into, the network she was reweaving in America, the steps she was taking that would eventually (he hoped) lead to her resurrection.

The three of them- John, Sherlock, and Irene- stopped outside the building, where a car was waiting for Irene. Sherlock hesitated before hopping in- he needed to speak with her, a dreadful longing that was becoming a compulsion.

"Irene," he said, catching her wrist as she slid in front of him to get in the car. "Wait." _We need to talk._

She twisted to look up at him. "Do you want to see Helen first, or Thomas?" _Not now._

He wanted more than anything to ask where they stood, if everything had been as it had been before of if something had changed while she was in America and he was in London-

And then he felt her hand twisting until two cool fingertips were pressed against the pounding of his pulse. With deliberate slowness, Irene met his eyes, then licked her lips. He _knew_ even if he couldn't see that she was thinking about Karachi, about tangled sheets and the clashing of teeth and tongue and mouth…

He knew his pulse increased- he could feel it under her fingers. In return, she offered her own wrist. Doubt tumbling through his mind, Sherlock let her wrist go and instead pressed his fingers to the tender skin under the line of her jaw, pressing just hard enough to feel the rush of her blood.

"Sherlock," she whispered. "I knew we'd meet again." Her blood beat against his fingertips, the tempo increasing.

For some reason, he couldn't think of anything to say that she didn't already know. Instead of answering, he opened the door to the car for her, avoiding John's inquisitive look as she slid into the luxurious car. He allowed John to go next, taking the seat next to The Woman, and seated himself last.

"We should go see the husband first," he said. "Irene, will you be going with us?"

She shook her head. "No, I think not. I'll drop you off, and then go root through my network. I have an idea or two about who would want this letter."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

Irene glanced toward the driver. "Alice, love, you're not hearing any of this. 2542 Northwest R Street, Burleith."

"I'm nothing but a driver, Ms. Reler," the girl driving said in a charming American accent. Sherlock noticed without much jealousy that she was rather pretty in a blonde, vapid sort of way.

Irene noticed the look, and shook her head at Sherlock. _Don't worry. She's… like Kate. _

Sherlock understood.

The ride was tense, fraught with something Sherlock couldn't quite fathom- he wasn't even sure if it was coming from Irene or from John.

John was facing quite resolutely ahead, and brewing. Although he didn't often show it, years of living with the soldier had made Sherlock more sensitive to his emotions, to his moods and his tempers. In the world there were three people whose body language and disposition Sherlock could interpret with a reasonable expectation of being correct: Mycroft, Irene, and John.

_Furrowed eyebrows, extremely rigid back and posture, clenched fists in the lap. Refusing to look at either Irene or I. Sucking on the inside of his cheek- John is upset. Very upset. Probably reverting back to military discipline in an effort to forestall any confrontation until we are alone, or done with the case. _

It was distracting for Sherlock, having to constantly worry about feelings and emotions and _people_ while he should have been concentrating on his case. Ever since his thrice damned 'vacation' after his fall, he had made a visible effort to not shut himself off so completely.

_Well. I'll worry about it after I've found the pictures._

It was a short ride to the large and stately house of the Secretary of State, where Irene dropped them off as promised.

"This is the same type of car used by all the bigwigs of American government," she told them. "They'll think you've been taken here by someone important. Any trouble with Thomas- or Helen, really- and give them this." Irene took out two business cards and handed them to Sherlock. "I'll stop by your hotel tonight?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

He and John exited the car, and it drove away, soon blending into the traffic outside the gated community. Sherlock regarded the enormous house before him, taking in as much as he could.

_Advanced security system, would be difficult for a thief to enter without setting off alarms. Neighbors have a dog, barked when the car parked would probably bark if the house was approached from that side. Will test theory when closer. Walls would be difficult to scale, but master bedroom window is clearly visible from the street-_

"Sherlock." John's voice. Insistent.

Sherlock acknowledged his colleague. Friend. "Yes, John?" He said it as if he was irritated and wanted to focus on the case. Which was a bit true, now that Irene was driving away in at approximately thirty American miles per hour. Which was rather fast for a residential neighborhood.

John glared up at him, clearly fed up. "Don't get all dismissive on me, Sherlock. What was that? Back there? With _Irene Adler_?"

Internally, Sherlock winced. He had hoped they would wait until after the case was finished to finally deal with this. "What about The Woman?"

"Well, apparently you are on first name terms with her," John snapped. "You knew she was alive!" He was raising his voice now, which had never meant anything good.

Sherlock tried to make himself as intimidating as he could. "You did tell me she was alive. And in America." _Perhaps the guilt from lying to me will distract him?_

John made a noise of frustration, along with a rather amusing face. "You knew I was lying. And you chose not to-"

"And spoil things?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "No. Mycroft told you to see your reaction. I couldn't let Mycroft know, and so I couldn't tell you. We really have you to thank, John. He discontinued the search for her because he thought you truly believed she was dead. I was preparing to take further action when he halted things."

Again, John shook his head and made a huffing sound. "Well, thank the gods you don't confide in me, then."

Now Sherlock was confused. "I just said that was a good thing."

"Never mind, Sherlock," John said, clenching his jaw. "Let's go and interview the husband. The Secretary of State."

It puzzled Sherlock, but he pushed it aside. They had a job to do.

* * *

**And that is the end of the first chapter. **

**I have the feeling that I'm far better sticking to oneshots- I struggled very much with this chapter. Constructive criticism would be much appreciated. But be nice, please. I have soft and squishy feelings that bruise easily.**

**I enjoyed the opportunity to get clever with the anagrams: IRENE ADLER, ELAINE DERR, DIANE RELER. Does anyone have any others?**

**Next chapter should be up in a while... not more than a week, promise. :)**


	3. Murder on Godolphin Street

**And... Chapter Two. I'm sorry it took a while, but I got sidetracked with a short Adlock oneshot and other things. **

**Thank you to The Pianist's Touch, who was the only person who reviewed the last chapter. Thank you. Hugs. Adoration. :)**

**The flashbacks are NOT in chronological order. Also, this chapter deserves the M rating a bit more than the last.**

_**Chapter Two**_

Irene Adler tapped the casing of her phone with her long red fingernails, a pensive expression on her beautiful face.

_Sherlock Holmes. In America. In Washington D.C., in my new home. On a case involving three of my clients. Oh, what a strange way this world works. I may have to give up and call it fate, and think that Sherlock and I were meant to be._

She was being silly, she knew. Too silly. _We do move in the same circles, after all. If he had been… different, I might have taken him as a client before Moriarty. Except he isn't into my sort of work… and I had thought I was firmly gay back then. _

Her thumbs tapped out a text message on her phone. _I'd be careful if I were you. The good doctor seems a bit peeved. I'm on my way to visit a contact of mine. _

"Alice, we are going to Mr. Lucase's house," she said, settling back into her seat.

It had taken Irene years to rebuild her professional life. _Years._ She had to find the right clients, find the right persona for each, gather information quietly enough and deadly enough for use with blackmail, and do it all without attracting the attention of the British government. She supposed she was grateful that American men were more reserved when it came to 'deviant' sexual practices, especially those that involved being dominated by a woman. And with the rather awful stigma that came with being a lesbian and in politics, her secret was relatively safe with most of the elected officials of the United States.

Soon she would have enough leverage to ensure protection from the American government, enough leverage that she could safely return to England and resume her old work, with her old clients. She was getting on in age- she would keep a few select officials as clients, enough to keep her abreast of all political situations. She would charge exorbitant rates, of course, and they would pay through the nose. They were in the palm of her hand, and that was the way Irene liked it. Irene was keeping tabs on all her old 'friends' and who they liked.

It was gratifying to know that even dead, The Woman had a reputation of enough strength that it was extraordinarily hard for any other working girl to meet it, let alone surpass it. Irene had worked long and hard to build her reputation and it had paid while it lasted. Her old clients remembered her- according to some sources, a few were giving Mycroft a bit the of cold shoulder for his role in her 'death.'

Edward Lucase was one of her newest American clients- a linguist and the friend of several high ranking politicians, which was how he had been given her card. He was just a tad bit too frisky for her tastes- Irene had been considering dropping him for a while. Still, he was the nephew of a certain someone who would certainly have liked to hear about the letter, and he had been a long time acquaintance of the Harpers. Or rather, Helen Harper. He would be a good place to start.

* * *

Sherlock and John were ushered into the house by a man who was built more like a house than a human being- Sherlock could practically feel John sizing the body guard up, in the unconscious way that military men sized up possible threats.

"We're here to see Mr. Harper," Sherlock said, voice clipped and precise. "We're aiding the investigation."

His accent raised eyebrows, and he could see someone behind the bodyguard get on the phone with someone. He apparently received an affirmative answer, and Sherlock and John were escorted into the interior of the expensively decorated house, where two men were waiting.

Thomas Harper was a handsome man, dark haired, clear cut, and elegant. The room they were in was clearly his study. _Attractive- if Irene had type this might be it. Delicate hands, doesn't do much rough work. Sweat at collar and brow, fiddling hands, extremely nervous. Keeps looking toward the older man- sees him as a protector or kind of reassurance. Used to have a mustache, wife has a cat but he prefers dogs, used to play water polo and American football, no children._

Sherlock turned his gaze to the other man, who was thin with an austere, acerbic face. Blue veined hands grasped the ivory head of an umbrella, in a manner that reminded Sherlock heavily of his older brother. He was very firmly in control of the entire situation, looking down his high nose at Sherlock. "You must be Sherlock Holmes," he said stiffly. "Mycroft's younger brother?"

It still annoyed Sherlock to only be identified as a projection of his elder brother. "Yes," Sherlock said tersely, seating himself and leaning forward. "You have a case."

Thomas Harper cleared his throat. "Yes. When I discovered my loss at eight o'clock yesterday morning, I contacted Mr. Bellinger here, and he said we should come to you."

Mr. Bellinger nodded. "Your brother told us of your role in aiding the United States when dealing with various… international threats."

_Irene Adler, perhaps. So this one, at least, is not one of Irene's clients._ "So it would seem. Explain to me exactly what happened."

Harper glanced up at Mr. Bellinger again, then back at Sherlock. "So, I received the letter six days ago, and I've carried it with me since. I didn't want to leave it in the safe at my work, so I kept in a locked safe in my bedroom overnight, and transported it with me in the mornings." He continued to explain that he wife had been to the theater earlier that evening and he had been otherwise occupied while he waited for her.

"Occupied how?" Sherlock asked, watching the man carefully. He knew that Harper would lie when asked that particular question, and he wanted to see what he looked like while lying. It would create a baseline, so to speak, with which Sherlock could identify his other lies.

_Slight flush of the ears. Reaches hand up to brush face. _"I was watching the football game, Mr. Holmes," Harper answered. "It was loud. I didn't hear anything."_ Again, hand up to brush the face. That's his tell._

"Did your wife know about the existence of that letter?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Harper said, both hands in lap.

"You never discuss politics with your wife?" John pressed. There was a faint tone of polite incredulity in the doctor's tone.

Harper looked up at him, and his hand rose to scratch his cheek. "Never." Behind him, Bellinger nodded approvingly.

"Could she have guessed?" Sherlock asked.

Harper shook his head. "No, she couldn't have."

Sherlock huffed out his annoyance, standing up and pacing in a tight circle. "Who else knew about the existence of this document?"

Harper and Bellinger exchanged another set of looks. "The President and his Cabinet," Harper said finally. "Besides them, perhaps two or three department officials."

"And from the sender's side?" asked John. "Maybe he wants it to be published."

In unison, Harper and Bellinger shook their heads. "No," Bellinger said. "A message was sent to the sender, and he was suitably outraged. It would mean his career and quite possibly his head if the letter was to get out. In all certainty, it would mean war."

"So what is your opinion, Mr. Holmes?" asked Bellinger.

Sherlock sneered at him unconciously. "You said that if the document is not recovered it might mean war?"

"Yes," Bellinger answered.

"Then, Mr. Bellinger," Sherlock said scathingly. "Prepare for war."

He stood and exited the room, leaving John to be the polite one and hold the two men up. If he was correct- and he was- the master bedroom was not far from the study. The doorway was blocked with tape- it didn't matter, Sherlock only needed to see the layout of the room.

_King bed, luxurious, safe either behind the sea landscape or the forest… sea, it's visible from the bed and there are fingerprints on the frame. Windows on the right, two stories up, would need climbing equipment- but it is visible from the street. Interesting._

Thankfully, he and John were alone in the hallway when Sherlock's phone let out an orgasmic sigh. Sherlock stiffened, hand flying to his pocket. Trying to push aside his emotions, he pulled out his phone and read the text.

_I sent my car back for you. The man I was going to see is dead. Edward Lucase, 16 Godolphin St._

* * *

Twenty minutes later, when Sherlock and John were still stuck in traffic, his phone sighed again. _Change of plans. Helen Harper wants to meet with me._

Alice answered a call, and turned the car around. "We are going to pick up Ms. Reler," she called, meeting John's eye in the mirror.

"Of course," John said, settling back into his seat. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, only giving a quarter of his consciousness over the conversation. The other part was occupied with the case.

John looked at him, away, and then at him again. "When were you going to tell me she wasn't dead?"

"Not now, John," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. "I need to think." He tapped his leg with his fingers, drawing John's attention before subtly indicating the driver. Sherlock didn't bother opening his eyes to check if John had received the message. Either he had or he hadn't and it didn't matter much.

Before long, Sherlock's mind was awash in theories and images and scenarios, shut off to the outside world. He didn't have much to work with- the layout of the house, the layout of the bedroom, the way that the Secretary of State had reacted… for Sherlock Holmes, it was plenty.

A rush of cool air hit his face, and The Woman's perfume was suddenly in the car and a warm thigh was against his.

"Hello, boys," Irene said in her usual manner, which made everything sound like she was flirting.

He kept his eyes closed, trying to keep his mind on the case.

"He's 'thinking,'" said John, a trace of irritation in his tone. But a trace was enough for Irene- she could read pages from a particular word choice or the exact position of one's eyebrow.

Irene glanced at Alice, who checked the mirror, smiled brightly, and changed lanes. "John. There were reasons no one could know I was alive."

"I get that," John said quickly, too quickly.

"Oh?" asked Irene. "Do you?" Sherlock could hear and feel her shift, probably turning so she could look at John directly. Sherlock was somewhat uncomfortable being in the middle of the conversation- John probably thought he was blocking it all out, ignoring everything around him as Sherlock was wont to do with cases. But he was listening, hanging on to every word.

There was less irritation in John's voice when he answered. "Yes. No. I don't know."

"We're here, Ms. Reler," Alice chirped.

The car had arrived at Irene's house- it, like all the other Georgetown houses that lined the road, it was old and made of a brownish-red brick. Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked a few times, rapidly adjusting to the sunlight. "She's meeting you _here_?"

"Yes," Irene said, sliding out of the car moments after Alice opened the door neatly. Sherlock followed, and John exited the other side and the three of them made their way into the house.

It was distinctly uncomfortable for Sherlock, to enter the house from the front door. Just being visible from the street was strange enough- but entering Irene's house while people could theoretically be watching? It was enough to make him overly relieved once the door shut behind them.

The interior of the house was not nearly as peaceful and pale as Irene's home in Belgravia. There, the sitting room was cream and honey, lit with sparkling crystals giving off a light that wasn't quite white but wasn't quite amber either. Here the sitting room was darkly luxurious, and Sherlock knew it was the receiving room she used for her clients, not the one she used personally.

How did he know? Because the slight brown stain on the wall paper in the foyer was from when he came and was bleeding and pale and shaking and had collapsed on the floor. Because the sitting room they used was back further and a floor up, with a huge green armchair that was _his_ and a sofa that he and Irene had slept on together and fucked on together. Because once when he was sitting in _his_ green armchair she had knelt between his legs with a wicked grin and his hands had wound in her hair and as long as her mouth was on him he realized that he could forget things he had thought would stay burned behind his eyes forever.

But this- this sitting room is nothing like their sitting room on the floor above. This one's windows are covered with curtains, and dimly lit. The chairs and sofas are uncomfortable, and the colors and lighting serve to make Irene's features harsher, the clicks of her heels on the wood floor louder, and red of her lips brighter.

John and Sherlock sat on the sofa, both uncomfortable. Sherlock unable to help but remember other times he's been in this house.

* * *

_The kitchen that he and Irene use is on the second floor, bright and sunny and full of the smell of cookies. Sherlock frowns as he makes his way up the stairs. Irene had probably been very careful to keep the smell of cookies out of the bottom of the house, where she meets clients._

_For once, Sherlock is completely unharmed. Well, not completely- there are a few interestingly shaped bruises he isn't quite sure how he managed to get in a few interesting places, but this time there is no blood, no gore. Even so, Sherlock is looking forward to a long hot shower, with or without Irene._

_He hasn't seen her yet, which is nothing unusual. He knows she isn't with a client- the red curtains on the third window up on the third floor are not drawn, their signal- so she's either in the house or out doing errands. He showers, then, suddenly ravenous, wanders to the kitchen helps himself to a cookie._

_Irene arrives half an hour and eight cookies later, with the self-satisfied smile she always gets when she's just back from shopping. The bags the girl is bringing up confirm this. If she is surprised to see him at her table reading the paper and eating baked goods (she shouldn't be, this is the seventeenth time he's arrived at her home) she doesn't say anything to that effect. _

_"I hope you didn't eat everything I baked," she said, a hint of reproach in her tone. "I got some caramel just for the apple tarts."_

_Sherlock waves his cookie at the rack, where all six apple tarts are cooling. "Caramel?"_

_"No need to sound so disgusted," Irene says, going over to him and leaning against the table. There is a playful smirk on her face. "Caramel can be great fun."_

* * *

_Irene is asleep when Sherlock stumbles into her bedroom. His eyes are dull and for once he isn't thinking and thinking and thinking now he's just fixed on one thing and replaying it over and over and over-_

_"Sherlock?" Irene had turned on the light, and sets down the gun that she was holding. Strange she had been asleep just a moment ago_

No you idiot you didn't even notice her turning on the light and pointing a gun at you because you were too busy running and running and falling and fighting and you punched him and then you punched him again and then you pounded his head onto the ground three times pound pound pound

_A warm hand is caressing his face, gentle strength tilting his chin until he is looking at her. Her navy blue eyes are filled with worry and now there might be slight lines around them because they are older now, when they met he was thirty-three and she was thirty-one and how he's thirty-five and she's-_

_"Sherlock," Irene says again, firmer this time. "What happened? Are you alright?"_

_Is she kidding he's the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat who pounds people's heads into the ground, he's fine he's always fine why wouldn't he be fine? "No," he rasps, leaning forward and letting his forehead rest in the space where her shoulder meets her neck. "Irene I-"_

_She leads him into a bathroom with a shower and carefully undresses him and he lets her do it because her hands are so gentle. She undresses too, and together they get into the shower and he lets her carefully soap his body and rise him, standing stock still until she gently pushes him down on his knees and washes his hair with as much care and tenderness as she washed the rest of his body. _

_The water and soap stings as it goes into his cuts and scrapes, but Sherlock has felt worse pain (a memory of several broken bones and a head wound that nearly killed him as it spilled his blood onto the street by St. Barts) and this is nothing compared to that. _

_Blood turned the water flowing into the drain a strained pink, but gradually it turned clear again. Sherlock slowly comes back to himself, soothed by the smell of the shampoo Irene's using (although he has his brands at her house, she uses her own shampoo which smells foreign and seductive and he likes it on her but he isn't sure about on him) on his curls, which have gotten longer. She'll probably want to trim them before he leaves, something that's become something of a ritual. Sherlock still protests at being forced to sit in the kitchen (tile is easier to sweep up) while Irene snips away at his hair._

_Trivial, banal thoughts slowly return to Sherlock and he stands again when Irene is finished rinsing his hair. He looks her over slowly, and she realizes that he is no longer in whatever state he was in before. _

_Sherlock, now fully aware of himself, pulls Irene to him, holding her slippery body against his, so tight that he can feel the thump of her heart beating against his. "Irene," he says, and it's not just her name. It's a sigh and a plea and although Sherlock Holmes has never begged for mercy in his life, he begs Irene Adler for mercy in that moment. _

_And although they are both done washing, they do not turn the shower off but move against and with each other and Sherlock is free to pretend that all the moisture on his face is from the shower. Irene doesn't give him any indication that she knows, and when they are finished he has a few red marks on his neck and she has ten tiny bruises on her hips because he was holding her too tight._

_She doesn't complain, but Sherlock feels guilty anyway._

* * *

_ When Irene arrives home from visiting a client, she usually locks her phone in her safe and then showers quickly while Alice makes her a cup of tea with exactly one sugar, a splash of milk, and one finger of rum. This time, her eyes dart around the room, and she instructs Alice to make two teas and to use the dumbwaiter (silly old things this old American house has but it's come much in handy) to send them up._

_Alice nods, used to strange requests from her employer. _

_In Irene's sitting room a man is sitting in the green armchair, reading the paper that is usually left on the small table next to that particular armchair. It is a British newspaper, one that Irene usually reads and leaves on that table just in case-_

_"Lestrade has finally recovered from the scandal I caused," Sherlock says coldly. "Solved a big case. If he had listened to the anonymous tip line they would have solved it three weeks earlier." Sherlock is still unable to help sending in tips to the police. Normally they disregard them._

_Irene leans against the side of the fireplace, where Sherlock has started small fire. She's surprised that he knows how to do this. "Is it wise, to give hints to the police department?"_

_Sherlock looks up and his eyes flash in what seems to be anger. "By solving the case he arrested three of Moriarty's crime ring. I-"_

_"Sherlock," Irene interrupts, raising her voice a fraction. "Okay. I'm not going to question your judgment."_

_"Isn't that what you just did?" asks Sherlock incredulously. "'Is it _wise_'" he says, mocking the tone of voice she used. _

_Irene crosses her arms. "You're in a mood, I see," she says, deciding to forgive him. "I'm taking a shower. Alice will send up tea in few minutes."_

* * *

Sherlock was jolted from his reverie when the door to the drawing room opened and Alice escorted a beautiful young woman into the room. She was all gold hair and bright blue eyes, a vision of loveliness in a pink dress that rivaled Irene's in expensiveness. However, the cheek was lovely, but it was paled with emotion; the eyes were bright, but it was the brightness of fever; the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang first to the eye as their fair visitor stood framed for an instant in the open door.

"Ms. Reler, I'm sorry but-" Helen Harper wrung her hands nervously, looking between Irene and where John and Sherlock were sitting.

Irene smiled calmly, and beckoned with a hand. "Come here, Helen," she ordered, voice soothing. "Come here, darling."

The approval in Irene's tone had an immediate effect on Helen, who calmed and crossed the room to where Irene reigned from an elaborate armchair. "Yes, Ms. Reler." With another glance at Sherlock and John, she took the slightly lower seat next to Irene.

"Oh, don't worry about those two, dear," Irene said, red lips still slicked into a purposefully enigmatic smile. "They're friends of mine. Now, dear. Did you come because of the documents that went missing from your husband's safe?"

Helen was completely shocked. "How...?" The woman looked completely lost. "No one is supposed to know about that!"

Irene smirked, catching Sherlock's eye. "I like detectives… and detectives stories," Irene said, and Sherlock could tell she was hiding a laugh. John did chortle outright, and Sherlock smiled coldly. "These two are on the case, dear. Anything you say to me can also be said to them."

At the mention of her husband's case, Helen's eyes grew wide. "I beg you- don't tell my husband I was here," she pleaded, large blue eyes directed at Sherlock and John.

Irene's hand captured Helen's chin, turning the woman's face to her own. "Talk to me, darling," Irene commanded. "Only to me."

_Her voice is mesmerizing,_ Sherlock thought._ With her voice and her intellect and her beauty it is as effortless as breathing for her to get what she wants._

"There are papers missing," Helen said, voice almost low enough to be a whisper. "Ms. Reler, you were at my house a day ago for our- our _appointment._ When I heard that the police had no idea what had happened-"

"Oh, darling," Irene crooned, caressing the side of Helen's face. "You didn't think _I _did it, did you?"

Helen looked down and away. "Of course not, Ms. Reler. I- I wanted to ask your help. I know you have friends all over, and I wanted to ask- to beg- that you help recover those papers-"

Irene laughed, a low sensuous sound that stiffened Sherlock's spine, although not as visibly as it did Helen's. "I'm already doing so, darling. That's why these two are here- they're friends of mine working who are working the case with the police and they know I have my friends in all sorts of places."

The way Irene spoke was so convincing that Helen had no choice but the believe her. "Thank you," she whispered. "So you know exactly what happened? Did they tell you everything?"

"They've told me everything," Sherlock drawled, drawing the attention of both women. "Do you have any questions, Mrs. Harper?" _The questions a person asks are just as important as the answers they know._

Helen's eyes darted between Irene and Sherlock until Irene released Helen's chin. "Answer him, darling," ordered Irene.

"My husband never tells me anything about politics," Helen said, again in a voice low enough that Sherlock had to strain to hear it. "What were the papers that were taken? Why are they important?"

_And there we are._ "I am not at liberty to discuss that, Mrs. Harper," Sherlock said dismissively. "Is that all?"

Helen nodded.

"Then you may go, dear," Irene said, a clear dismissal. "I'll be unavailable for any appointments for the next week or so. Alice will give you a schedule, if you ask her."

With that, Helen rose. "Thank you, Ms. Reler," she whispered, and with a nod to Sherlock and John, she left.

"So… what do you think?" Irene asked Sherlock, raising a delicate eyebrow.

Sherlock turned to John. "You're the expert on women," he said. "Tell me what you saw."

"Well, she was nervous," John said, straightening. "But what she wanted seemed clear enough. She was reasonably worried that the documents were important."

Irene nodded. "But consider that this a woman who does not show emotion lightly," she reasoned. "Perhaps she was more concerned than she let on."

"How big would the repercussions be if her husband discovered her affair?" Sherlock asked. "How would he react?"

Irene sighed, and rubbed the back of her neck. "He wouldn't be devastated. I believe he would be happy for her, as long as she kept it under wraps. It would be bad for his career if it got out, and he might have to divorce her. He enjoys her company, but she's not… feisty enough for him."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Useless," he snarled under his breath. "What of your contact? Lucase?"

"Edward Lucase is dead," said Irene with a sigh. "Which is a pity because he would have been our best bet."

"Dead?" asked Sherlock. "How?"

Irene didn't wince, as he had half expected her to do. "Stabbed with one of his own knives," she stated blandly. "Murder. House was ransacked. Which means-"

"That there is a fair chance he was involved in this," John finished, heaving a sigh. "Alright. What now?"

Sherlock stood, and John followed his lead. "Now we need to go to Godolphin Street," Sherlock said, with the smallest of grins. "Murder on Godolphin Street."

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Comments are always appreciated, here or on tumblr.**

**If you so desire, I have a new Adlock oneshot out- _The Secret Chord_. It's far sadder than... pretty much any of my other Adlock stories. **

**The next chapter will contain an angry John, a somewhat sullen Sherlock, and Irene being... well, Irene.**


	4. Bon Appétit

**Hello, readers dear. Chapter Four is just about finished, so voila, Chapter Three!**

**Thank you to all the lovely reviewers. I have found that encouragement always leads to bursts of writing. **

**Now I will admit freely I had a quite a bit of fun with this chapter, although I find it terribly hard to write John. Very helpful to me was _The Ladies' Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness _by Florence Hartley, as well as _The Gentlemen's Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness_ by Cecil B. Hartley. **

**_Chapter Three_**

Still seated, Irene laughed. "No," she said, shaking her head. "Sherlock, it wouldn't be wise." _Listen to me on this one, dear._

A flicker of irritation rose in Sherlock. A normal person would have quashed it immediately, but Sherlock let it show blatantly on his face. "And why would that be?" _I can make my own decisions, Irene._

"Because Americans get prickly about things like this and you shouldn't even technically be here because those documents aren't technically missing" Irene said firmly. "And even so, I have a sneaking suspicion that the documents are still in the United States. In fact, I believe that my dear friend Edward Lucase is still in possession of them." _I think you're forgetting this is now my home, my new territory. I know the terrain, Sherlock. And I know Lucase, and the American system. Listen to me._

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, turning quickly on his long limbs and loomed over Irene. "Is that so? Explain." _I'm not going to listen if you don't give reasons. Tell me why._

Irene rose from her seat, and Sherlock could see she was half expecting him to step back, to give her more space. He remained where he was, aware of John's eyes on his back. Irene's eyes flashed, and a familiar expression slid onto her face, a combination of shifty eyes and a smirk that told Sherlock she was fine with him playing games as long as she was allowed to join in on the fun. "Edward is fond of… secret compartments, hidden safes, and is notoriously tricky," Irene said in a low voice, chin tilted up so she could look directly in Sherlock's eyes. _Fine, Sherlock. Here are my reasons. Good enough?_

"So?" Sherlock asked arrogantly, still holding his place. He would not be the first to break. "That means what, exactly?" _No. And taunting me by insinuating he's a client isn't going to work on me._

Irene's scarlet lips spread farther. "It means that the documents are still hidden in the house," she whispered, resting a light hand on Sherlock's chest. _Yes it does. And I only do it because you know I only want you. _ He had not intended to make a sound, but he could not help the sharp exhalation that her touch caused. His face, however, remained impassive. Irene fiddled with his buttons, gaze as sharp as her tone was soft. "We wait until tomorrow morning, Sherlock, and we can go to Edward Lucase's home and find the documents." _Trust me. Nothing will happen overnight._

"And why do we not go tonight?" Sherlock asked, moving impossibly closer to her. _A hand on my chest isn't going to distract me, Irene. _

"Because we do not want the police to wonder why we are there or what papers we are stealing from Edward Lucase," Irene said, and Sherlock thought in some distant, hazy part of his mind that her voice sounded how her hands felt when she was caressing his face. "I have a few avenues I would like to pursue first." _For heaven's sake, Sherlock. _

She wasn't telling him something, that Sherlock knew. "John, can you call that man and tell him we will need to have access to the crime scene on Godolphin Street tomorrow morning?"

His eyes did not leave Irene's face, and hers did not leave his. John sighed loudly. "Sure. Fine, Sherlock. Would the two of you like me to leave the room and give you some alone time?"

"That would be nice, yes, John," Sherlock said bluntly.

John slammed the door behind him, and Sherlock slanted his mouth over Irene's with a ferocity that shocked her- he could feel her hand clench suddenly on his chest and her lips were tense for a split second before she was kissing him back with just as much strength.

When he had received his fill of her tongue, he moved his mouth from hers to her neck and the sensitive spot by her ear. "We're working, Sherlock," Irene breathed, letting out a small sound like a breathy moan as her fingers wound in his curls. "John could come in-"

"He'll be on the phone for at least another thirty seconds," Sherlock hissed, and returned to her mouth. "I _missed_ you." _He's gone and we have time and I want you._

He feels Irene smile gently, and Sherlock knew that he sounded just the part of a petulant child and would have probably been embarrassed had he not been so relieved to have Irene's body molded to his and the smell of her hair in his nose and the twin set of shoulder blades pressing into the arms that was holding her to him. It used to scare Sherlock, the realization of how much he missed her. Usually, he could compartmentalize quite well, which meant that while he and Irene were apart, he didn't think about her much unless it had been day without a case and his experiment wasn't going well. Even so, there was a small list in his head where he kept track of all the things he was going to tell her the next time they met. To make it easier on himself, Sherlock referred to her as 'The Woman' at all times when they weren't in the same room.

But bottling it up and ignoring it meant that when he saw her Sherlock could no longer contain the flood of emotion and thrice damned sentiment. The curve of her lips made him ache to hold her, the length of her eyelashes entranced him, the slight movements she made drew his attention to her hips and breasts and the sound her voice made him want to hide away with her and talk for days. Sex hadn't been a driving factor for Sherlock before he met Irene Adler- but for some reason every time his eyes met hers some part of his brain was thinking about her nude and below him or above him or-

Irene stepped out of his arms smoothly, reaching up and erasing her lipstick from his mouth. She finished just as John reentered the room, slipping his phone back into his pants pocket.

"Cooper said that he'd get us into the Crime Scene tomorrow, since we're not supposed to really be here. You're right- he hemmed and hawed and said that no one really knew we were here because no one knows the documents are missing. We can't just show up with no explanation."

"Very well, then," Irene said, a sliver of triumph evident in the way she tilted her head at Sherlock and spoke teasingly. "Then we have to wait until tomorrow morning. Why don't we all have dinner?" _I was right and you know it. And we have time… why not have John over? He's your best friend- I should get to know him._

John and Sherlock looked at each other. _Furrowed brow, slight frown, not thrilled. But he'll do it. _"What time?" Sherlock asked, checking the clock on the wall.

"Seven," Irene responded. "Would you rather eat here, or somewhere nice?" _Intimate, or not?_

Sherlock tilted his head at John, indicating the other man should answer. "Here, I suppose," John said, confusion in his voice. "Can we sort all of this out then?"

Sherlock didn't understand, but apparently Irene did because she laughed and nodded. "Promise," she said. "I'll see you back here at seven. If you want, Alice can drive you to your hotel." _You're going to need to do some talking, laddie. Do you want some time to plan?_

* * *

Thankfully, John waited until the two of them were back at the hotel before breaking down and questioning Sherlock. The former soldier shut the door to their hotel room, locking it and leaning against the false wood with a stern look on his lined face.

"Sherlock," he said in a warning tone, drawing out the name. "What was that about?"

Before this, Sherlock had formed plans that involved carefully and rationally explaining everything to John, plans that didn't include shouting or anger. He had thought it would be simple, that he would carefully explain the texts and the dinners (and perhaps leave out the sex or skirt around it in a delicate manner) and then give distinct reasons why John could not under any circumstances know about the rescue in Karachi.

However, faced with actually telling John everything, Sherlock desperately wished to be anywhere else, or to have another dead body discovered, or some other kind of pressing issue that needed immediate action. He also wished he had something with which to occupy his hands, his violin, perhaps.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it again. He tried once more- he didn't know what to say. John looked angrier. "I… I'm sorry."

"I'm _sorry_?" John repeated, clenching the muscles around his mouth. "Sherlock, this morning I though Irene Adler was dead and- I lied to you to try and-"

"Protect me?" Sherlock responded, looking down. He flopped dramatically on the bed. "You don't need to protect me, John."

John gave a short kind of barking laugh, and took the other bed. "Well, apparently I do, Sherlock. She's _The Woman_. She _used_ you. Or did you forget about that? And what's going on between you?"

It would be easiest to answer the questions in order, so Sherlock did just that. "I didn't forget about it. I know why she did it. And we- The Woman and I-"

"Cut it with the 'The Woman,' crap, Sherlock," John snapped. "Irene Adler is alive and apparently she's using you again."

"She wouldn't do that," Sherlock snarled, with heated emotion in his voice. "John- Irene isn't what you think. We've come to- to an understanding."

John shook his head and laughed again. "An understanding? Are you one of her clients, now?"

"No," said Sherlock. "Don't be ridiculous. An understanding is exactly what it is. We understand each other."

John covered his face with his hands, rubbing his temples before sitting up and looking directly at Sherlock. "Okay. So when did all this start?"

Sherlock took a breath. "A week or two after Belgravia."

This shocked John- he could tell in the way the man drew his shoulders together and stood up straighter. "So… a few _years_ ago."

"Yes," Sherlock said as succinctly as he could. "We… we had dinner. It was an accident. You had a date with whatever her name was at the time and I was hungry and we sort of… ran into each other."

"So you had dinner one time?" asked John.

"Not really," Sherlock said, sighing. He knew he owed it to John to explain, but to unveil something that had been private for so long was painful in a way. "The texts- it was a game."

John wrinkled his forehead. "So every time she texted you 'let's have dinner…'"

"We had dinner," Sherlock clarified. "But we didn't really technically have dinner. We sat at different tables. And we usually didn't talk."

John stared at him for a long moment, then accepted it as a strange fact of Sherlock's life. "And after she betrayed you?"

"She warned me about it," Sherlock said immediately. "And I knew she wasn't dead. It wasn't her on the slab."

"But Molly said you identified her," John said, more confusion leaking into his tone. "I believe her exact words were 'he knew her from not-her-face.' She was upset about it- Sherlock, how did you-"

Trying to ignore the flush of red that went to his cheeks, Sherlock spoke over John. "I believe you were in the room when she was naked?"

"Then how would you know it wasn't her? That would have been nearly six months after we originally saw her, Sherlock, even your memory isn't that good." John was up and pacing now. "What aren't you telling me?"

So. John wanted to know. Sherlock would acquiesce, even though it ranked among the most uncomfortable moments of his life. "We didn't always meet for dinner," he said from between gritted teeth. "Use your imagination, John."

Apparently, something clicked for John. "And that was why you were always disappearing before Christmas," he cried, triumphant. "You were sneaking off to see her!"

"I was," Sherlock admitted. "We came to an understanding. Moriarty was the real threat, John, not Irene Adler. She didn't want to do it. I understand why she did. We talked about it, later."

"Later?" questioned John. "Karachi?"

Sherlock nodded. "I heard that she was there. I went and- well, I couldn't let them kill her. I took care of the problem, faked her death, and got her fake American papers."

"And that was all?" asked, John, and Sherlock was sure that he was employing sarcasm.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I returned here. Irene went to the United States." He hesitated. "I didn't see her again until I died."

"You didn't really die, Sherlock-"

That was it- he had listened and talked enough. He stood and crossed the room to where John was pacing, using his superior height to loom over the man. "Everyone I cared about in the world thought I was dead I would have believed it too if it hadn't been for Irene Adler," he hissed. "She put me back together after I fell and every time I had to kill I went back to her and she put me back together again. No one has done what Irene Adler-"

"I would have done it," John said quietly. "I would have done it if you had come to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock met his friend's eyes, then turned away. "She saved me, John," he said in a low voice. "I couldn't trust anyone. I didn't know if they were watching you or Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson or Molly. Moriarty had people all over London, crawling everywhere. The only safe person was a dead person. And Irene was dead. She still is."

He was trembling, unable to hold his body still and controlled. This was _John_, quite possibly the person he trusted most in the world (because as much sentiment as Sherlock felt toward Irene, she couldn't quite always be trusted) and showing this to him was like exposing some deeply private part of himself. He turned around, facing John again. "I would trust Irene Adler with my life, and she would trust me with hers."

Sherlock couldn't know that John could see the haunted fragment of a man Sherlock had been while in hiding- he didn't know that his eyes were wide and dark and his pale hands were clenched into fists that made his knuckles even whiter. At the best of times Sherlock looked slightly ill- now his cheekbones were thrown into high relief by the yellow lights of the room that were also giving his skin an unhealthy tone. There was a level of emotion etched onto Sherlock's features that was rare to see from the usual cold and apathetic man- it unsettled John vaguely.

"Well. Alright then." John turned away, and opened his suitcase. "What should we wear to dinner, then?"

* * *

The streets of Washington D.C. were loud and chaotic, with the occasional blaring siren or honking horn. However, as their cab approached the more residential area of the city, Sherlock noticed the noises melting away until he and John were gradually sitting in dead silence. It appeared to make the cabbie nervous as well- after a while he asked if he could put on some kind of sports thing.

Sherlock paid him no attention, more concerned with the thoughts running through his mind.

_She wants to have dinner. With me and John. Is she going to want to talk about us? Is there an us to talk about, really? What are we going to talk about? Will we discuss the case? Will she say something about Karachi? Or about when I was hunting down Moriarty? Or will John ask her questions? Will she want me to stay over? Can I stay over? I want to stay over, I want to be with her. _

He only realized he was tapping his fingers in what must have been an annoying manner when John grunted and shot him a glare. He stopped immediately, still trying to appease the doctor. An annoyed John wasn't good in Sherlock's experience, and with a case to solve it was even worse. At least at 221B Baker Street the worst John could do was refuse to buy milk and sleep over at his girlfriend's house. Here there was an international case that he couldn't really jeopardize without repercussions from Mycroft and for Irene. And here there was Irene- if she and John teamed up for any reason, Sherlock knew he would be in for it, even though he wasn't quite sure what 'it' was. It would be bad, whatever it was. Irene could pull even the tiniest bits of relevant information from a person, and John knew far too much about Sherlock and his habits for Sherlock to be entirely comfortable leaving the two of them alone in a room.

The last time it had happened, there had been a discussion about his sexuality, John's, and hers. They had also discussed his eat habits, how he corrected the telly (which Irene still teased him about), and his playing of sad music. Irene had extracted far too much information from that particular conversation.

Another throat-clearing from John's side of the cab brought Sherlock's attention to his tapping fingernails. "Sorry," he mumbled.

John narrowed his eyes. "Why'd you say sorry? You never say sorry."

"I do sometimes," Sherlock muttered. "We're here."

The cabbie stopped and let them out. Sherlock didn't bother reaching for his wallet- if John wanted him to behave as he normally did, he'd let John pay as usual.

The front of Irene's house had never before seemed so imposing- tall and stately and very colonial-American, the pale wood of the house was covered in shadows from the many trees that stood between it and the street. As it had earlier in the day, it felt strange to Sherlock to ring the bell and shuffle uncomfortably at the step. Normally he broke into the house by the back window, or by jimmying the lock on the patio door.

Alice let them in with a greeting and a rather bland smile, taking their coats and hanging them up. Sherlock considered sneering at her, but decided to remain stoic and impassive instead. John bit back a laugh, causing Sherlock to break his impassiveness and glare at him.

"Miss Reler asked that I escort you to the parlor," Alice chirped. "If you gentlemen are ready?" Sherlock and John nodded, and were led to a different parlor than the one they had been in earlier in the day.

Irene was calmly reading something on her phone, draped in a brocade armchair with an ease and grace that was enviable in many of the women Sherlock had met in his life. Her hair was done up again, and she was very carefully making sure it did not touch the back of the chair. Her legs were bare and gracefully crossed before her, the firelight lending her skin a glorious golden color. Irene was wearing a dress that seemed rather unsubstantial around her upper arms, baring a generous but elegant expanse of shoulder and collarbone and just the tops of her breasts. It was dark blue, a shade darker than her eyes, and fell to her knees in a demure fashion that didn't quite match the temptation of her legs or chest or smile.

_She's temptation personified,_ Sherlock thought, not taking his eyes from her face as she smoothly hid the phone and rose with the ease of a proper hostess.

Sherlock was typically uneasy in most social functions- he had been raised in an extraordinarily rigid household, and sent to a boarding school that taught the high society etiquette he had used since birth. Irene had been raised in much the same way- he knew this from their many talks- and so it seemed natural to take her hand and kiss it gently, even as he realized that John had done no such thing.

It didn't shake Irene, however, who simply took his arm and drew him to the dining room where someone had already placed the soup dish, which was steaming pleasantly. Irene took the place at the head of the table, allowing Sherlock to pull out the chair for her. Sherlock took the place to her right (he had escorted her in, technically, so it was his due) and John the place to her left.

"Bon appétit," Irene said, a trace of true happiness in her voice.

She lifted a spoon to her mouth, and John and Sherlock immediately followed suit. They weren't silent for long before Irene spoke.

"I heard that you attended St. Bart's, in the day, Dr. Watson," Irene remarked casually. "Do you still take patients there?"

The conversation went on amicably enough between John and Irene. Sherlock was content to eat quietly, and observe his friend and his lover.

Irene was in her element as a hostess, and somewhere Sherlock remembered reading that she was in the frequent habit of hosting small soirées and dinner parties for both her clients and important persons- a modern Catherine de Vivonne or Madeleine de Scudéry. Like the Marquise de Rambouillet or Mademoiselle de Scudéry, Irene's gatherings had been lauded as centers for delicate discussion and political intrigue, events no one and everyone knew about.

A lull drew his attention as the soup dish was cleared and the meat was offered- it seemed Irene wasn't making an attempt for a full formal dinner, and for that Sherlock was thankful. He didn't eat much on the best of days, and while he would normally have no compunctions about being impolite, this was _Irene. _He would make an attempt.

"Sherlock was telling me that the two of you know each other better than I would have thought," John said finally, looking Irene right in the eye. Sherlock wished strongly he could kick John. There was a time and place for being bold and while this could have been it, Sherlock would much rather have it not be.

Irene didn't look toward Sherlock, but held John's gaze. "We had dinner." She smiled softly, a touch of fond remembrance on her features. "At different tables." _Remember, darling?_

John gave his kind of little laugh-snort that made Irene grin. "Of course. You were saying that you knew Doctor Brandit?"

Somewhere along the pastry course a discussion began concerning medical practices and ethics and Sherlock found himself drawn in. He, of course, was on the side of risk for advancement's sake and John was more concerned with the patient. Irene played devil's advocate for the both sides and the argument in all was great fun. John was smiling and laughing and Irene pulled one or two pins out of her hair half way through and let it all tumble down, and Sherlock himself was speaking and gesturing and making faces at John's more incredulous arguments.

He hardly noticed when they left the table and retired to the parlor for coffee- the strong black French espresso that currently favored in Europe. He did notice, however, when he drank the entire thing in one gulp and found his tongue curling in on itself.

"That's ghastly," he gasped. Immediately, he was contrite, glancing apologetically at Irene. _I meant it, but I didn't mean to insult you. _Sherlock was never one for societal politeness and as much as he wanted to please Irene he was really too entirely comfortable in her presence to be able to fake it entirely.

She just laughed. "Sorry. Would you like me to ring for something else?" He nodded and she left to do just that, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the parlor.

"She's not as… evil, as I remembered," John said in a low voice, sipping his own cup of coffee. He was standing by the fireplace, and the warm light from the small flames turned his face red and orange and made the few silver strands in his hair glint.

Sherlock nodded, keeping his face neutral. "She's different around other people," was all he said. "It's her talent- she adapts."

Irene rejoined them, a slow smile crossing her face. "You've been talking about me," she said, mischievous delight in her tone and on her face.

"Only the nicest things," Sherlock said- it wasn't quite true but it wasn't a lie either. _Nothing important._

"Good," Irene said. "I'll have to credit the good doctor with that as I am sure you'd be less kind in your words." _Really? Not even to John?_

Sherlock accepted a cup and saucer from Alice, and smiled quickly. "You've charmed him completely." _He wouldn't suspect a thing, now. I think he may very well like you, my dear Miss Adler._

Irene laughed delightedly. "Is that so, Dr. Watson?" _I do try, Sherlock._

"It is indeed," John said, with a shake of his head. "Although I haven't quite forgotten you nearly handed us over to Moriarty."

Irene quieted, glancing at Sherlock. "I believe you were there when he threatened to make me into shoes if I didn't comply."

"You mean he threatened to make you into shoes if you were lying about what you had," Sherlock corrected. "Turning events to your advantage-"

"Don't start, Sherlock," Irene snapped. She recovered quickly, covering her momentary anger with a terse smile. "James Moriarty was not a man to trifle with, and you know it. It was either give the information to him and gain his protection or find myself the target of several separate groups willing to kill me to get it. And he would have gotten the information anyway sooner or later."

Sherlock didn't glare at her as much as glare at her wall. "I know."

"Then why do you constantly bring it up?" Irene said, sighing. "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. It's been an… issue with Sherlock and me for a while."

John looked unsure of what to do or say; he coughed faintly, sipped at the espresso, and promptly choked. Irene's mouth tightened and she looked away. "This is lovely," John said, coughing again. "Don't worry about it."

Suddenly, Irene sunk into a chair, covered her face, and started laughing. It looked as if she was sobbing- immediately Sherlock was by her side, watching her shoulders shake with concern. "Irene-"

She looked up and laughed again. "I'm hopeless," she said frankly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I-" She looked up at him, and he could see what she was saying. _I'm sorry. I'm hopeless. I was trying too hard to make everything better and I couldn't. _

Acutely aware of John's presence in the room, Sherlock set his cup and saucer down on the mantle and held a hand out to Irene. She glanced at the doctor, then at Sherlock, and hesitantly laid her hand in hers. Immediately Sherlock pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, holding her gently. His heart was beating quicker not just because of her presence, but because he could feel John watching them. Even so, when Irene nestled her head into the space above his collarbone, he ducked his head so he could whisper in her ear.

"Everything is perfect," he whispered, feeling her shiver as his warm breath hit her ear. _It hasn't been a complete disaster, but I'm going to lie to you anyway._

She giggled against him. "You're lying," she said, voice muffled by his suit jacket. _You're lying to me because you care and that is very sweet, dear._

He smiled into her hair. "I am," he agreed. _Good. You understood then._

It was over too soon- she pulled away and he let her go, missing her warmth immediately. John was very decidedly looking into the fire, fingers tight around the offending glass of espresso. "Hamish," he said after a moment. "I said it before and I'll say it again. Hamish is a wonderful name for a boy."

* * *

**And so ends Chapter Three.**

**In related news, I kind of accidentally got a job (which terrifies me and I'm not sure I'll be able to do it and I'm a mess of nerves and anxiety) so I won't be able to write as much. But Chapter Four (which is kind of smutty) is written, and will be posted as soon as I finish Chapter Five. I'm having a pretty rough day so I'd thought I'd try to make other people happy with a new chapter. :)**

**Reviews are always appreciated. **


	5. In the Quiet of the Night

**Sorry it was a bit longer for an update. I wanted to make sure Chapter Five was done before I posted this one. **

**Thank you to Smells Like Old Spirit, the only one who reviewed last time. I love feedback as much as any author- and so this rather M-rated chapter is dedicated to you. :) **

**And speaking of M... yeah. So. This is a kind of interlude before the actual plot picks up again. Also, some reflection and flashbacks. I did some weird things with tenses, but that was for a reason as I hope you will see. Enjoy!**

_**Chapter Four**_

"Can you stay here, tonight?" Irene whispered to Sherlock, letting her hand trail down his chest to teasingly stroke at the soft fabric over his hipbone.

Sherlock bent down and nuzzled her nose, barely brushing his lips over hers when she tilted her head up. "I don't think I can. But I'll leave the hotel and come here." It was unspoken, that he would only stay for a few hours.

"What if I meet you there?" she asked, kissing the corner of his mouth. He had shaved before coming over, so it was smooth and the scent of his aftershave was soothing. "Get a room."

He pulled her closer, holding her to him and kissing her soundly. "Yes," he finally said, voice rough, before letting her go. "John's coming back."

* * *

In the car, John was quiet for a while before he spoke about the dinner. The silence didn't feel heavy to Sherlock, familiar as he was with John's process of carefully reviewing information and forming opinions.

"She's changed," he said finally.

Sherlock didn't look at his friend. "She has," he agreed. "We have too."

He could remember when Irene Adler was still a mystery to him, a beautiful seductive mystery with fathomless eyes that knew too much and a scarlet mouth that said too little. He could remember how she could walk into a room naked and still have more armor than the people she dissected with her own special brand of wit and observation. He could remember when he wasn't sure if Irene Adler was a blessing or a curse, an angel or a demon, an ally or an enemy.

_He had been sitting on a cream couch, in a sunlit sitting room in Belgravia when he first saw her. Disguised as a vicar with a bleeding face, Sherlock Holmes had lost all thought at the sight of her._

_Apparently, she had been planning on it. Her battle-dress, as Irene called it, had been appropriately chosen._

_"I was sorry to hear that you'd been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name." The smirk that had graced her face at the sight of his would have enraged him, had he the time to properly process it._

_It wasn't Irene Adler's beauty that astounded him- no, although she was beautiful, he had seen legs and breasts and hips before. It was the utter confidence with which she held her body, to be expected in a dominatrix, but still captivating. The tilt of her head, the smile in her eyes, the way her hips swayed and the contrast of white skin and dark hair and red lips. All she was wearing was a pair of black heels, a silver ring on the middle finger of one hand, and a pair of marquise cut diamond earrings._

_The words he had been saying died in his throat._

_"Don't worry. It's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright. Well, there, now. We're both defrocked. Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She said his name with a lilt and a grin, striding over to him with no compunctions and straddling him in a smooth motion. It was to his credit that his eyes never left her own, even as she pulled away his clerical collar._

_It discomforted Sherlock the way his voice dipped down the register when he spoke. "Ms. Adler, I presume."_

_She barely nodded, more intent on studying his features. "Oh, look at those cheekbones," she crooned. "I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?"_

_Irene was trying to a reaction out of him, testing the waters. When his features didn't even flicker, she took the collar between her teeth with an audible click._

_That was the moment John chose to enter, carrying a bowl of water and a towel. Sherlock felt a surge of almost irrational anger- something that completely surprised him. He didn't normally feel feelings- sentiment- but it had been happening lately, with John and Mrs. Hudson. He could rationalize that away, but it in a box that supposed it was evitable having known them and lived with them for months, but to feel a base human emotion over someone he hardly knew- a woman- was something completely foreign._

_She was gracious, as she walked away, covering herself up in John's presence. The fact that she did move to hide her body belayed the disinterested manner in which she did it._

_And while she was doing this, she was engaging in a battle of wits with Sherlock, acknowledging the fact that she had known where he was. Had him followed._

_**I have important connections,** Sherlock meant. **I'm here because of the photos.**_

**_I know. I've been tracking you. I know what role you play in all of this, countered Irene._**

**_I know that too._**

_Of course, it all went completely over John's head._

_She was inscrutable, unreadable._

_In other words, a challenge._

_He looked to John, reading him accurately and quickly. Then back to her._

_Nothing._

_And then she proceeded to analyze him in plain view._

_"I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself," she told him, eyebrows arched and blue eyes wide._

**_How did you do that?_**

**_I have my ways._**

_"Somebody loves you," she added, wicked delight in every line of her body. "If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." Her eyes deliberately slid to John, a clear acknowledgement of exactly how Sherlock had obtained the cut on his face._

_**Not even five minutes and she knows more about me then I know about her.** Sherlock was as uncomfortable with that realization as John was with Irene's nudity._

_At John's plea to cover up, Irene narrowed her eyes and delved into the veteran's mind._

_"I don't think he knows where to look," Sherlock said dismissively, rising and offering Irene his coat._

_Irene was more focused on John as she stood and sauntered over to him. "No. I think he knows exactly where." Clearly she gleaned something from the blonde man's expression, because she returned her attention to Sherlock, accepting the coat._

_"Not sure about you."_

_She questioned them about the hiker, beginning a battle of wits unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen. He was thankful that she gave him the opportunity to show his particular brand of intelligence._

_Sherlock snapped at her. "Stop boring me and think. It's the 'new sexy,'" he drawled. Irene obliged, daring him with her eyes to revise her opinion of her as someone who catered the whims of the pathetic and would take her clothes off to make an impression._

_The business with the Americans only made the entire affair more interesting. The moment of complete shared understanding with the safe combination roared through him, igniting his bones and mind and body. He was _joyous_, ecstatic, alive. He had outsmarted the Americans, outsmarted her, and saved the day. The rush of adrenaline and the slight ache of his muscles from pistol whipping the American was still alive, and it had been a joy seeing a savage expression on Irene's face as she did the same to the man holding her captive._

_Irene tried outsmarting him once more, and failed. His ego inflated._

_And then she brutally deflated it, dancing her fingers down his arm with one hand and stabbing him with a syringe with the other._

_In that room of darkest blue and ivory, she retrieved her phone, taking fierce pleasure in smacking him, first with her hand and then with her riding crop._

_"This is how I want you to remember me," she crooned, caressing his flushed skin with the smooth cool leather. "The woman who beat you."_

**_No one's ever done that before._**

**_I'm not just anybody._**

From the first day they had met, Irene Adler had been a contradiction wrapped in an enigma hidden inside a woman. Sherlock could remember how frantically he had attempted to figure her out- all his attempts at analyzing her actions had culminated in decrypting her texts.

He remembered how he had watched her eat, staring at her lips with an aching burning hunger he hadn't even known he was capable of. He remembered how he couldn't leave one night, how he had waited for her outside the restaurant, he remembered how he had claimed her mouth as his and walked away burning with confusion.

Sherlock remembered the way she looked the second time he saw her naked, except this time she wasn't wearing heels or the silver ring, only the diamond earrings. Before that moment, she had still been an unknown quality. But there had been something in her face and in the way she stroked his skin that told Sherlock that whatever he was feeling, she was feeling too.

_That night was seared into Sherlock's memory as a melding of flesh and mind, a supreme cohesion of body and spirit, the likes of which he had never known._

_It was the first time he had crushed the soft, rounded curves of a woman's nude body to the hard planes of his own with a passion that made it seem as if they were going to fuse into one. It was the first time he had ardently kissed someone who responded with just as much fervor. It was the first time he had given in completely to desire._

_She was everything to him- red lips that left marks on his skin, elegant hands that scratched lines down his back, indigo eyes that only left his when her back arched and her head tilted back with pleasure._

_He took obscene delight in learning to play her body like he played his violin. He committed every sigh and moan and intake of breath to his memory, finding the tender spots on her neck, the particular section of spine that made her shiver, the pressure at which his fingertips dragged along his sides made her gasp._

_In return, she used her extensive knowledge to make him insensate, all though processes reduced to her hands, or her breasts, or her body. He had thought that this narrowed focus, the drowning out of all higher thought, was what made sex degrading._

_He was wrong._

_"You are more than I could have ever imagined," he told her in a groan, letting his head hang down as he moved over her._

_Her arms twined around his neck, and her eyes widened. "It isn't always like this."_

_"It's you," he agreed. "Only ever you."_

_They didn't talk more._

After that night, he was changed. She was changed. It was as if they were two elements that apart could cause small reactions by interacting with various other things, but together would explode and shine brighter than the world had ever seen before blinking out of existence, having used all their energy in melding and burning and changing. He had been terrified of her. Terrified of losing her, terrified of what she might do to him, terrified of what he might do to her. Sherlock Holmes had always had the power to hurt another person, but he had never been in a position like the one he was in then.

He could hurt her, but her pain hurt him. She could hurt him, but his pain hurt her. Therefore, the best course was to devote their selves to the other's happiness. But should Irene place Sherlock above herself, Moriarty would kill her and that would hurt Sherlock more than anything else in the world. The knowledge of ephemeral joy and inevitable pain had changed both Sherlock and Irene, and neither of them had known if it was worth sacrificing the ignorance whose bliss paled in the face of what they possessed in the hours they were one.

Even if Sherlock refused to admit to himself that he loved her, he still knew that Irene Adler had changed his very foundations. The worst part was she had acted like the surgeon and he like the patient, and while she was implanting and excising he had been awake, there had been no dulling anesthesia but he had ignored the pain because acknowledging it meant that something had changed and Sherlock had not been ready or willing to admit it.

He had thought the final shift in their relationship had been when she betrayed him and he betrayed her in return- but no. It had been a change but it hadn't been the last one, no, merely the most painful. He had learned that betrayal did not mean hate and whispered promises made in quiet hotel rooms could be broken.

In Karachi he had learned forgiveness. The taste of Irene's mouth and skin and tears had changed him yet again. The surge of need to cover her body with his own, to protect her, to make himself part of her so that she could never leave him again rose over him and crashed through all his pretentions and games and façades. Irene Adler was his and he was hers. He finally had someone- that had changed him, and perhaps it was for the better.

Sherlock knew he had changed Irene too. Just as she had proven to him that he wasn't invincible, he had proven to her that she was capable of love, that she could be fragile and strong at the same time, that she didn't need to bend him to her will.

John had changed as well. It made Sherlock distinctly uncomfortable to think and catalogue all the ways he had changed the lonely military doctor who had limped into St. Bart's with Mike Stamford. Before the fall he had been content in the knowledge he had changed John for the better, what Sherlock had thought was the better anyway. He had assumed that being a man who only sighed at a bowl of toes in the refrigerator was preferable to one who would think it strange. He had assumed that John found a life filled with murder and mysteries better than an ordinary one. He had assumed that living with somebody was better than living alone.

But Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's and discovered with sickening suddenness how little (or how much) it took to completely change a man. John had aged in minutes, he moved like a man with all the sorrows of the world on his back, or a windup toy that just wanted to rest but kept on ticking forward, wound by a child who didn't know when to stop playing. Sherlock had changed John just as much as John had changed him (_except John had changed Sherlock from machine to man and Sherlock changed John from man to machine_) but after three days he couldn't stand it anymore and left for America.

They were all changed, him and John and Irene. For better or for worse, however, Sherlock Holmes could not say.

* * *

Sherlock was cursing Mycroft and his rather puerile sense of humor in getting him and John a single hotel room. It was an action he should have anticipated. Mycroft regarded John as Sherlock's loyal if misguided watcher, and treated him as such. He had no compunctions about disrupting John's life to interfere with either Sherlock or John himself to irritate Sherlock. To Mycroft, John was simply an extension of Sherlock just as Anthea was merely an extension of Mycroft. Therefore, it made sense to Mycroft to give them a shared hotel room, figuring it would keep Sherlock from getting up to something alone. Although Sherlock could also see Mycroft stretching his lips in that obscene and entirely humorless way he had and musing that it would remind the two men of their small and cramped (cozy, in Sherlock's stubborn opinion) flat.

But for whatever reason Mycroft had chosen the hotel room, it was hindering Sherlock. John was a light sleeper who snored. Sherlock didn't sleep whilst on a case, and _Irene Adler_ was only a few rooms away and it was quite probable she was naked and thinking about him.

So Sherlock decided he wouldn't even wait until John was asleep, he would be upfront about where, exactly, he was going and take the inevitable jabs and snickers and jokes.

But then he chickened out and decided to wait until John was asleep because if anything, Sherlock hated to be mocked.

Even so, despite his resolutions not to clue John in, the soldier was rather adept at figuring out the consulting detective's various moods, and fidgeting was not an indicator that he saw often.

It didn't take long for John to figure out what was going on. "She's coming here, isn't she?" he asked, amused.

"Yes," Sherlock bit out reluctantly. "We agreed she would take a room here for the night."

John let out a short laugh. "Do you know how _strange_ it is to think about you having-"

"Then don't think about it," Sherlock snapped.

John laughed again. "Fine, fine," he said, grinning. "I'm going to blog a bit. You go off and find your lady friend."

The damnable laughter persisted and finally Sherlock stood (shakily because he was standing on the bed) and stalked off (from the bed to the chair and over the coffee table to the door) to Irene's room in nothing but his sleeping clothes and his blue dressing robe, thoroughly disgruntled.

He caught sight of her coming up the hallway, looking the picture of elegance as always. She dressed the part, tonight, wearing a large sunglasses and a burgundy silk scarf covering her hair. She was dragging a medium sized suitcase that Sherlock assumed was some brand women coveted and spent plenty of money on given the type of woman Irene was.

"It's the middle of the night," Sherlock said snidely, still in a mood. "There's no good reason for you to wear sunglasses."

Irene sighed. "You have no poetic sensitivity," she told him (for the twenty fourth time) with a familiar teasing lilt in her voice. She tossed her card at him and he caught it. "Number two hundred and twenty-"

"One, yes I know," Sherlock finished, striding to the door he had named and sliding the key through it.

A red light dinged, and he whirled to look at Irene, who looked as if she was giggling silently and helplessly. "Two," she supplied helpfully. "That one's taken."

With a scowl Sherlock opened the correct door, stepping aside to allow Irene to pull the suitcase inside. As soon as the door shut, she removed the sunglasses and unwound the scarf, letting her naturally curly hair fall around her face. "Better?" _Are you happy to see me, my love?_

Sherlock moved closer to her, eyes roaming her face, her neck, her curves. "Somewhat," he allowed._ Yes._ When he was near enough he slid a hand up her neck to cup to the back of her head under her hair while he kissed her gently. She responded by arching her back into him and letting out a soft sigh.

They stood together, kissing, until Irene pulled away. "We really should talk," she said regretfully.

"We should," Sherlock agreed. "But we can misbehave first." It was meant to remind her of their night in Karachi and it did what it was supposed to do: Irene grinned, and no little lust seemed to sink onto her features.

Suddenly, the hand that was twined in his hair seemed less gentle and more possessive, and the very distinct way she was rubbing up on him banished most rational thought from Sherlock's mind.

He loved the way it felt to return to Irene Adler's body after weeks (or months or days or hours really). He had remembered all of her curves and all of the things that made her smile or sigh or gasp, but that knowledge was like theory written in books: to go to a lab, to prove his knowledge and adjust his hypothesis and correct what he had thought was true, to learn new things and reinforce others was more than fun or exciting it was the definition of passion.

The night they were in Karachi, Sherlock had learned that Irene would make a peculiar sound in the back of her throat if he kissed her throat and touched her breasts at the same time. The third time he had stumbled back to her house he had learned that the three days before she menstruated her breasts were almost painfully tender, but if he was gentle and delicate with her she would orgasm in minutes from his mouth on her nipples and his fingers inside her. The very first time they had ever slept together he had learned that her lower back was extremely sensitive and she would shiver every time his fingers brushed the end of her spine.

Sherlock had learned to play the delicate and ever-changing instrument that was Irene Adler.

But at the same time, she had learned to play him.

Irene Adler had learned that to pull Sherlock's hair was to have him at her mercy. She had learned that he couldn't decide if he liked it best when she rode him or when he moved over her but he definitely didn't like it when he couldn't watch her face. She learned that to bite his shoulder would make his breathing come faster in a good way. She knew that his sides were extremely ticklish. She had learned that Sherlock was definitely most fascinated with her breasts- she absolutely adored the completely serious expression he got on his face when he had the opportunity to examine them and touch them and before long she wasn't focused entirely on his expression but on the way she was feeling. She learned that Sherlock could be both a selfish and unselfish lover. The times she had needed it (when Moriarty had called and she had cried and cried and cried) Sherlock would put every one of her needs above his own. In his own small ways Sherlock would let Irene know that she was adored, that she was thought of, that she was missed and wanted and loved.

It had been so long, so long since Sherlock had relearned Irene that he lost all track of time. He was entirely focused on her, everything that made Irene The Woman. He heard nothing but the sounds she was making and felt nothing but her skin and her hair and saw nothing but her eyes.

Sherlock never slept while he was on a case, but the sleepy lassitude that most termed 'post-coital bliss' was close enough. Irene, however, kissed him lazily and sprawled over him and slept almost immediately. It was a bliss of its own kind, Sherlock thought, to hold Irene Adler while she slept. He had no illusions about being the only one to have ever done this (there had been two others) but he was the only one in recent years. The only man, for certain.

In the stillness of two o'clock in the morning, with his body tired from sex and his mind stilled, Sherlock could hold Irene loosely and stroke the skin of her arm or back or hip, ducking his head occasionally to smell her hair. Her head rested where his arm met his body and she had on arm thrown over his chest, with her legs intertwined with his.

Sherlock knew she would wake up in a few hours- they had promised to talk, after all- so he savored his hours with The Woman in his arms. He matched his breathing to hers. He whispered a long list of things he had discovered in her absence. He added to her rooms in his mind palace. He committed to memory the way she had looked in her dress, the small changes to her body in their months apart, the exact contrast of her inky curls on the bare skin of his torso, bleached white in the darkness of the room.

At about four in the morning her breathing changed and Sherlock knew she would wake up soon. Carefully he eased out from under her, smiling softly at her sleepy protests, and gently hooked her legs over his shoulders. She shivered when his breath touched her and was grateful when he was slow and gentle and brought her to a quiet orgasm that felt like a dream. She would have thought it was a dream if the strong hands on her hips had been less firm or if the curls under her hands had been softer.

When she finished, Sherlock slid up her body again, and she could see in his eyes that he wanted to kiss her. She didn't mind tasting herself on his lips, so she kissed him, rolling him on his back so she could slide down over him.

This time, when they are done, Irene doesn't go to sleep, but returns to her former position half-on-top of Sherlock, legs a jumble of limbs.

"I missed you terribly," Irene sighs, caressing the skin over his ribs. "I was waiting for you and I hated myself for it sometimes."

Sherlock nuzzles her hair. "Why?"

"What sort of strong, independent woman waits around at home for the man she loves to return to her? If I had any sort of strength at all I would have gone to you." It is the truth, a hundred times over. Irene is long past feeling any sort of fear when she bares her soul to Sherlock.

"It is too dangerous," Sherlock says, voice rumbling in his chest. "Too many people in Britain want you dead."

Irene sighs again, kissing the skin of Sherlock's chest that is near her mouth. "I'll have enough to return, soon. A year, perhaps. Less. Six months, if I go about it cleverly."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, silent in thought. "Return to Britain?" _Or return to me? Or to your old work?_

"Yes," Irene answers. "I'll have enough to get protection from the Americans, and I slowly insert myself back into the political scene in England. Not fully- I'm almost ready to retire from the game." It is said wistfully, but again with truth.

Sherlock presses a kiss to the top of Irene's head. "I can't imagine you not playing the game," he admits. "Why are you playing this game with the Harpers?"

Irene rolls over, pressing most of her torso onto Sherlock's so she can see his face. "I thought they might call you in. Have you met Mr. Bellinger? He's an old friend of Mycroft's."

"I have," replies Sherlock. "What will you do when you return?" _What does this mean for us?_

For some reason, it hurts to look into Sherlock's eyes. Irene returns to her former position, and pulls the comforter up. There are goose bumps on her arms, but when Sherlock's warm palm sweeps up and down a few times they go away. She shivers and moves closer to him. "I don't have a concrete plan," says Irene. "I know I'm not going to take back all my old clients. I don't want to fade entirely into obscurity, but I also don't want to become too prominent."

"You want all your old influence but…" Sherlock's voice trails off, but they both understand. He wants desperately to ask about them, what would happen to _sherlockirene/irenesherlock/us_ but he can't form the words.

Her mouth is close to his nipple, and when she exhales it hardens. Irene rolls over again, this time pressing her mouth to Sherlock's. It is a messy kiss, with some teeth and tongue and noses in the way. When she pulls away, Irene's hands have found their way to Sherlock's neck. "We've already had our last night," she whispers, feeling the two pulses beating together on either side of his neck. "We've survived the end of the world and we can survive the creation of a new one."

Sherlock slides the hand that had been holding her head in place down her neck and back until he reaches her leg and he moves them gently until she's on her back and his long form is covering her smaller one. Instead of saying something repetitive and unnecessary, Sherlock kisses her mouth and pulls away before the kiss can become serious to press his lips to the pulse in her neck, where he suckles until her lifeblood rises to the surface in a red mark. He bites down gently, and she gives a breathy noise that sounds a bit like her text alert.

Irene remembers being a twenty something and finally figuring out why someone's teeth on her neck arouses her so much- there is something primal about knowing someone has the power to rip with their teeth and kill but instead they choose to kiss. Sherlock doesn't just kiss, he bites and licks and touches and every time they are together she does the same.

It's Irene's guilty pleasure to leave a mark on Sherlock. She loves marking his neck, his chest, his shoulders. _This man is mine!_ she screams to the world_. My lover, my genius, my detective! Mine! _

He is hers and she is his and that is all either of them cares about until the sun begins to rise and peer into their hotel room through the gaps in the heavy curtains.

"It turned out to be the gardener," Sherlock was telling Irene. "No one bothered to check his fingernails."

She smiles at him, then buries her face in his neck. "It's daylight," she whispers.

Sherlock's arms are around her and holding her tight. "It is," he agrees. There is sorrow in his voice, but to anyone else he would sound as impassive as he normally does.

Irene stretches up and they kiss, desperately at first, but then slowly, savoring the movement of lips and tongues, until they finally part. Their eyes had been open the entire time. Irene strokes the side of Sherlock's face (his face is rough and she adores it but she also loves it when he shaves Irene just loves all of him) and stands. "I'm going to take a shower," she says, hand still on his face.

He takes it and kisses her palm. "I'll see you later," he says, and leaves the bed as well.

Irene can't help but watch him, beautiful and long and lean and scarred, her Sherlock. Then he shrugs on his blue dressing gown and leaves her room without looking back.

* * *

**And our lovely little interlude is over. It's back to the real world for Sherlock and Irene.**

**This was one of my favorite chapters to write. :) The next one is much more technical, and I like this kind of writing better. **

**In the life of the author: The job is going well, much better than I expected, really. School starts the first week of August (which is really bloody early) so I want to hurry and finish this before I get too swarmed with homework and college applications. **

**I shall see you after I've finished the sixth real chapter. Comments are much appreciated. **


	6. The Mystery of the Second Stain

**Sorry for the lateness. School started three weeks ago and I'm more stressed than I've ever been in my life.**

**Unlike my normal habit of posting only when I've finished the next chapter, I'm posting this now because a month is a bit long to wait. I'll write the next chapter when I find the time. Of course, reviews and encouragement always help, and they haven't been very forthcoming. Thank you to those who did review, and let me know that they were enjoying this story. **

**Voila- Chapter Five.**

_**Chapter Five**_

When Sherlock returned to the room he was supposed to have shared with John, he was grateful the man was still asleep. Hastily, he showered, removing the smell of Irene and their shared night.

With quick strokes he cleared a portion of the fogged mirror, taking stock. Some of his muscles feel pleasantly sore. On his shoulder there is a clear imprint of Irene's teeth, and there are red marks on his collarbone and his neck. He probed one of them cautiously, a slight smile on his face. She always marked him, one way or another. Even when the sex was gently, she sucked at his neck long enough to leave a bruise that lasted a few days. He was pale enough that it always worked.

John was awake when Sherlock returned to the room; the man was bleary eyed still and didn't say anything more than a mumbled greeting before stumbling into the shower. Sherlock preferred it that way- hopefully John's eyes hadn't caught the marks on his neck.

The hotel offered a breakfast program that held no interest for Sherlock. He wandered down anyway, glaring at the people around him. It was warm in the building, over compensating for the fall wind. Scarf-less, Sherlock braved the line for hot water and teabags, keeping his expression and body language deliberately aggressive in order to avoid any unnecessary communication.

_Mission accomplished,_ he thought with satisfaction, riding the elevator holding two cups of tea. _Get John his tea, and then we can all go the crime scene. _

John accepted the tea and the sorry excuse for a scone Sherlock had taken. Thankfully it wasn't long before they were out in the open air and Sherlock was securely ensconced in his Belstaff and scarf. Irene's car was waiting for them, as if Irene had just arrived.

Sherlock glanced over at John, who grinned. "Be quiet," he snarled quietly.

"I didn't say anything," John retorted, still grinning. He held open the car door. "After you."

Irene was in the far seat, legs crossed as she texted away. "Good morning," she said, nonchalant. "Sleep well, John?"

"Lovely, yeah," John said. "Uh- you?" He looked as if he immediately regretted asking.

She looked up from her phone, giving the two men a salacious grin. "You wouldn't believe the-"

"Irene." Sherlock glared at her.

She smirked. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Hush," he told her sternly, sliding into the car. He made sure his fingers brushed the small part of exposed thigh.

The look that spread across her face could only be defined as positively delighted. "Or?" _You'll make me?_

"Yes," Sherlock said plainly. _Please. John is here._

Their eyes met, a challenge of wills.

_So?_

_It's John. And we're- we're private, Irene._

_Why should we be private?_

_Because this is ours. For us. _

_I want to claim you for the world to see._

_You know you have me. Is that enough?_

The slamming of the car door jolted both of them out of their conversation. John sighed. "Please don't make me the third wheel."

"It would be indescribably rude to do so," drawled Sherlock, looking pointedly at Irene.

She sighed. "My apologies, John." _Sorry, Sherlock._

Her leg was right next to his hand, so he stroked it quickly with his thumb. _It's fine. I understand. _"Are we going to the crime scene?"

Irene tapped her fingernails against the casing of her phone. "That depends," she said in a lilting voice. "You see, Mr. Edward Lucase was murdered on Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning, the same night the documents went missing. The first suspect the police took into custody was the butler, but he had a rather solid alibi, so they released him. Now," she waved the phone, "a friend of mine just told me that they have arrested Mr. Lucase's wife, Jolene, who appears to be quite mad. Would you rather go to the crime scene, or to the precinct?"

"Crime scene," Sherlock said immediately. "Tell me about Mr. Lucase." _What did you observe about him, Irene?_

A glance at Alice in the mirror, and the car began to move. Irene began to speak. "A linguist, very talented," Irene began. "Plenty of friends in very high places, including the Harpers. I think he's known Helen Harper since university. He also has plenty of international contacts, but mostly limited to France and Eastern Europe, which was why I felt safe taking him as a client. His wife, Jolene Lucase née Bardot, has connections in some governments in Eastern Europe, but her main contribution to his influence is China. He warned me about her- horribly jealous, high tempered, family history of mental disorders."

John frowned. "So there is a good chance she could have killed him? Which mental disorders?"

"I couldn't say," Irene said regretfully. "He never went into much detail about her, just a few pictures here and there around his house. He said to watch out. Anyway, he has plenty of contacts, including his godfather, in Russia, who would have loved to get their hands on those documents. Of course, that means he has enemies as well."

_Interesting,_ Sherlock thought, sinking into thought. _How many ways could this have panned out?_

"Describe his lifestyle to me," Sherlock said.

"He kept his life in neat little compartments," Irene said quietly. "He would alternate between his address on Godolphin Street and his house in Paris in periods of three months. Jolene lives in France, and thought he had to be in America for business. He drinks heavily, he would go to many of the high society events in D.C., and through his godfather he has a pretty good grasp on the politics here."

John turned to her. "Did his wife know about you?"

Irene shook her head. "No. His wife was probably largely unaware of his more… masochistic side."

"So he was of the second type?" Sherlock asked sharply, meeting Irene's eyes.

She didn't look away. "Yes."

_"I don't trade in sex, Sherlock," Irene said, voice serious for once instead of playful. She was propped up on one elbow, mirroring his position. There was a sheet draped over where her and Sherlock's legs were tangled together in a shapeless mass._

_"You're a dominatrix." He didn't bother keeping the confusion out of his voice. "Pardon me for not knowing exactly what it is that you do."_

_She dragged her fingers through her hair. "I deal in humiliation. Pain, ridicule, emotional release. These people, these powerful men and women, fall into three main types, although they do overlap a bit. There are those who are placed in positions of stress daily. They make decisions that get people killed, topple governments, and sabotage revolutions. There is so much pressure on them, at all time. They are in the public eye, they need to be perfect and in control and right all the time."_

_"So you take the responsibility for a while," Sherlock surmised, the light of learning in his eyes._

_Irene nodded, gifting him with a smile. "Exactly. While they're with me, I'm in charge. I decide what they wear, what they do. They have to obey me unconditionally. They tell me what they did, what they are ashamed of, what they struggled with. They ask for my approval of their decisions. They need someone to tell them they did well. And I tease them and manipulate them to a point that when they do find release, it is the kind that makes them black out. Their orgasms are so strong that they are boneless, they don't have to think. They are free of whatever was plaguing them, and are free to continue their work unhindered."_

_"And you get plenty of state secrets in the process," added Sherlock, raising an eyebrow._

_"Yes," Irene admitted, laughing. "I do. But my point is that I don't have sex with them. I use my hands and my toys on them. I hardly have to touch them to bring them to the point of almost losing themselves in lust. I am their superior, not their equal. Sex is something for equals, a thing of beauty, a type of emotion that must be equally present on both sides to be fulfilling."_

_Sherlock reached out and caressed her face, almost shyly. "What we have."_

_"Yes," Irene said._

_"What about the others?" he asked. "The other groups?"_

_She hesitated, then forged on. "Those are the masochists, the ones who get off on pain. I whip them, I hit them, I humiliate them. I make them look into their souls and see what they hate about themselves, and I use pain to purify them. It's their penance. For the man who hates himself for abandoning his morals to politics, I become the physical manifestation of his hate. I torture him for it, until he has atoned for his perceived sins. They don't need sex to add to their guilt- I simply provide pain."_

_Sherlock was silent, absorbing the information. "And the last group?" he asked finally._

_"The kinky ones," she said. "The men who like dressing like women, the rich poppets who are figuring out if they like girls or not. Usually, they'll also fall into one of the other two categories, but sometimes they really just want someone to tie them up and speak dirty. The girl whose pictures you were trying to find was one of those."_

_"So the sex is something different for you?" Sherlock asked. His tone was casual, but face and body language told her a different story._

_Quickly making her mind up, Irene leaned in and kissed him. When she pulled away, she stayed close. "Sherlock, I'm gay. Normally, I mean. I prefer women to men, and always have. Except for you. Yes the sex is different, because up until now, I've only ever had sex with women."_

"What was he atoning for?" Sherlock asked.

Irene sighed. "He felt guilty for many things, Sherlock. I'm not going to reveal his secrets just because we're on-"

"He's dead." The fact was stated plainly, and with nothing to soften it.

Irene looked out the window, the line of her jaw tight. "I know that, Sherlock."

_I did something wrong,_ Sherlock surmised. _Said something wrong. I said he was dead. He is dead. Perhaps I was being insensitive. Shit. Try for sensitivity now._ "Is there anything we would need to know?"

"If something he told me becomes relevant, I will inform you," Irene said, voice still sharp. It reminded him of the first time they had really fought.

* * *

_The doorbell didn't ring, but someone is in the house. Irene awakes to this awareness with an uncomfortable prickling on the skin of her arms and neck. But when a familiar outline appears in her bedroom in a flash of lightening from the window, the worrying sensation goes away. There is only one person she knows with this distinctive body. Tall, lean, broad shoulders, curly mass of hair. Irene shoves aside the heavy covers, shivering as she stands and turns on a lamp, crossing her arms over her chest._

_Sherlock is not in a coat or other protective garment, in apparent disregard for the howling February thunderstorm raging against her window. His curls are wet and sticking to his skin, which looks too pale in the yellow light from her lamp. His cheekbones are sharper than they were the last time he appeared in her house, and his hands shake. _

"_Sherlock- what's going on, here?" Irene asks, something like sadness in her voice. She reaches up to stroke his face. "You're breaking apart-"_

"_I am not." Sherlock says sharply, moving so she doesn't touch him. "If I am not welcome, I shall leave."_

_Irene sighs and shakes her head. "Stop being silly. You know you are always welcome in my home."_

_Something she said makes him wince. It's odd, to see Sherlock displaying emotion so openly. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"_

"_Nothing," he says, refusing to meet her eyes. "I-"_

_She narrows her eyes. "It has to do with welcome, doesn't it? Who is dead this time, Sherlock? The last time you saw me was only two weeks ago-"_

"_No one, this time," Sherlock says with a sneer. "I- It's done. It's all over."_

_This confuses Irene. "What do you mean, 'It's all over?' Moriarty's network-"_

"_Completely disabled," Sherlock finishes._

"_Then why aren't you at Baker Street?" she demands. "Why are you here?" It is obviously what he doesn't want to hear, but she doesn't care._

_Something changes in his face. "I see I am not welcome after all. I shall-"_

"_You shall do nothing," Irene says threateningly. "Sherlock Holmes, you do not show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night right smack dab in the center of the worst storm Washington's seen in ages and make weird statements and-"_

"_I crawled in through a window," Sherlock mutters. "I was never on your doorstep."_

"_Semantics," Irene snaps. "So what's done is done, right? You're free to return to your old life with no fear of repercussions?" She knows what Mycroft Holmes can do- she studied the man, her opponent, for months in order to play her game._

_Sherlock's jaw works for a moment before he speaks. "I can-"_

"_This is a yes or no question, Sherlock," interrupts Irene, hands on hips. "Yes. Or. No."_

_Sherlock stares at the wall behind her head. Normally he wouldn't let anyone talk to him like this and Irene knows it, but because she is The Woman she isn't treated like anyone else. "Yes."_

"_Then you'd best give me a bloody good reason why you aren't groveling at John Watson's feet right now," says Irene, meaning every word. Tears burn hot behind her eyes and her throat tightens. A memory of a woman with reddish hair and a soft voice and a simple name covers the sometimes overwhelming sensation of Sherlock._

"_I am not sure I will be welcome there," Sherlock admits, stumbling through the words. "It appears he has moved on. I am wondering if I should do the same."_

_Irene sucks in a breath, anger and fury and sadness and regret filling her until her hand rises of its own volition and she slaps Sherlock across the face, the crack sounding loudly in her ears as it is accompanied by a peal of thunder. Sherlock stares at her, anger and fear and worry in his eyes, but he doesn't move, not even to raise a hand to his red cheek._

"_You have a _choice_," Irene says, unable to keep her voice from breaking. She pulls herself together, and the next time she speaks her voice is no longer impassioned, but cold. "Leave."_

_Sherlock frowns at her. "Irene-"_

"_Sherlock Holmes, turn around and leave my house," Irene says. "Go back to England. Get punched by John Watson. Forget this nightmare ever happened."_

_There is hurt in Sherlock's face. "I'm- Irene, I'm afraid." She doesn't know how much it cost him to say that aloud, for him to admit it. _

_She can't stop herself from giving into the tears. She clutches her middle, trying to hold herself together as her soul spills out from her eyes in salty tears. "Sherlock- you have a choice. You can go back, you can return you-"_

_His arms go around her, and she lets him even though there is a fury in a corner of her brain demanding she hit him again and make him bleed. His chest his wet, his hair drips on to her face, cold water that contrasts with the hot salt of tears. But his arms are strong and his chest is solid and his heartbeat is steady as she sobs against him. _

"_Tell me to go again and I will," Sherlock says. "I- If anything, Irene, I respect you, and- If you want me to go and never bother you again I will." _

_Irene sobs harder. "Don't," she finally says. "Tomorrow you can go."_

_He pulls away enough to wipe away her tears with cold thumbs. Their mouths meet furiously, a clash of tongues and teeth while noses and cheekbones bump, but his large hands are cupping his face and before long they are removing her clothes._

* * *

In the time between Irene finishing her description of Lucase and the car arriving at 16 Godolphin Street, Sherlock had already formulated approximately twelve theories. John and Irene conversed quietly, but he drowned them out, paying no attention to what they were saying. He kept the sounds of their voices as background noise, though- John's lower voice with a slight rumble mixing with Irene's sweeter, higher voice. He could imagine the three of them at Baker Street, him working on something while John and Irene talked in the living room.

He pushed the thought away as the car rolled up to the section of the street blocked by police tape in bright yellow and black. It was a high, dingy, narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which gave it birth. A single officer had been left to 'guard' the scene, and it was him Irene, Sherlock, and John approached after leaving the car.

Sherlock examned the man quickly, then snorted. _Tired- up all night, probably. Wife at home doesn't understand the demands of the job- his shirt is wrinkled but all his patches are neatly sown on. Recent discord. Toddler at home who is learning to draw, clearly right handed but green pen marks on the left hand. Shoes are cheap but shined, badge has been polished, wearing full uniform. Proud of his job. Eyes linger on Irene- he sees himself as a white knight, a rescuer, likes doing things like opening doors for ladies and taking advantage of his status as an officer of the law to 'protect' them. _

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Diane Reler to inspect the crime scene," John said hurriedly, as Sherlock forwent formalities and tried to directly open the door, to the officer's outrage. "The FBI agent should have told you."

Irene smiled at the officer, and put a hand on his arm. "Supervisory Special Agent Mason Cooper, sent us here," she said sweetly. "Be a dear and open up for us." It was unnecessary. Sherlock saw Cooper a ways off to the side, talking with a man who appeared to be a detective inspector like Lestrade, whatever the American version was.

"No need," Sherlock said, frowning. "Here he comes."

SSA Cooper frowned at them as he heaved his bulk up the steps. "Bit early, isn't it?"

"Sherlock doesn't sleep when on cases," John remarked dourly. "Can we see the crime scene?"

The man scratched the top of his head and yawned. "Don't see why you'd wanna," he said candidly. "Didn't 'spect you'd have heard, but we've got his wife. Girl's batshit crazy but we're certain she did it."

Sherlock rounded on the detective. "We are here because of a matter quite dissimilar to Mr. Lucase's death," he snapped. "You requested my help. I am telling you we need to see this crime scene."

Cooper glared back, but gestured for the constable on guard to open the door. "Make sure you don't disturb anything, then," he said. Turning to Irene his frown deepened. "This isn't something for a lady to see," he said gruffly. "Professional working girl or not." Sherlock was quite surprised by the outrage that rose in him at the insinuation. _Irene isn't-_

Irene's face grew frosty. Sherlock had never quite noticed that when she desired it, power wrapped around her like a cloak. "Step aside," she ordered.

Mason Cooper did as he was commanded, and Irene led the way into the house. The room into which they were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but no trace of it now remained, save an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the center of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of which had been used to repeatedly stab Lucase. In the window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

"We already know what happened," Cooper said, annoyance in his voice. "She- the wife- knocked at the door- surprise visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments. He let her in- couldn't keep her in the street. She told him how she had traced him, reproached him, one thing led to another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn't all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it all clear as if we had seen it."

Sherlock sighed. "Obviously not," he said bitingly. "What's gotten you then? You're jittery- caffeine, I'd expect. You've been up all night, and spilled your coffee on your sleeve. Usually you take it with sugar and no cream, this time it was nearly half cream because your ulcers are getting worse. Earlier, outside, you were talking with the detective in charge of his case and you became upset- obviously shown in the way you continually-"

"Shut up," Cooper growled. "I didn't haul your ass over from England so you could insult me-"

"You 'hauled my ass' over here because you have a case to solve," Sherlock said intently. "What is wrong with this crime scene?"

The man scowled, but gave in, gesturing to the square drugget. "It isn't nothing really." Sherlock let out a huff at the man's double negative, but waved for him to continue. " It's 'a mere trifle,' like you Brits say, but the sort of thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can't have, on the face of it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Then stop dancing around answering my _question._ What is it, then?"

"Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to keep things in their position," Cooper explained.

"Yes, yes we _know_ that," Sherlock said dismissively. "Now get to the interesting part."

Cooper glared. "Nothing's been moved. Officer in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried and the investigation over— wifey confessed, but she's nuts so the D.A. already cut her a deal. Johnson thought he'd take it in for processing, this carpet. You see, it is not fastened down; only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it. We found—"

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically. "Yes? You found?"

"Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have soaked through, must it not?" Cooper indicated a bloodstain that was a dirty rusty color.

"Obviously," Sherlock sneered. "Get on with it." He ignored John's look that clearly read, 'Stop antagonizing the stupid American.'

"Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the white woodwork to match it," Cooper spat. "That interesting enough for ya?"

"No stain! But there must—" Sherlock stopped himself, eyes narrowing.

Cooper took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

"But the underside is as stained as the upper. It must have left a mark," John said carefully. "The floor under is white wood, it's going to show up."

"Now I'll show you the explanation," Cooper said, responding much better to John's politer tone. Sherlock snorted, and Irene smacked him lightly. "There _is _a second stain," Cooper was saying, "but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself." As he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white facing of the old-fashioned floor. "What do you make of _that_, Mr. Holmes?" It was clearly a challenge.

"It is simple enough," Sherlock said shortly. "The two stains did correspond, but the carpet has been turned round. As it was _square_ and unfastened it was easily done."

"The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them that the carpet must have been turned round," Cooper said sarcastically. "That's clear enough, for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way. But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?"

Behind him, Sherlock could hear Irene clear her throat quietly. _His little hidey-holes, _Sherlock surmised.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I've got six possibilities. Three. One. The officer guarding the door- he was here all night?"

"Yeah," Cooper said, clearly confused.

Irene's eyes widened. "No…" she breathed.

"Yes," Sherlock said, eyes glinting. Turning to Cooper, he said in a very fast manner, "Examine him carefully. Don't do it before us. We'll wait here. You take him into the back room. You'll be more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don't ask him if he has done it, take it for granted. Tell him you know someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I tell you!"

It hit the agent suddenly, the realization that something had transpired concerning the crime scene and the young man guarding the door. Without another word, he stalked out of the room. A few moments later, Sherlock heard the front door bang open and the roar of the displeased man.

"That'll do it," Sherlock muttered, moving in a circle to fully examine the room. "Irene- shut the door. John, help me with the drugget."

John crossed the room as Irene did as he had asked. Together he and John tore the drugget from the floor, and in an instant Sherlock was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as he dug his nails into the edge of it. As Sherlock lifted the square of wood, he saw it was hinged back like the lid of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Sherlock plunged his eager hand into it, and drew it out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment. It was empty.

Irene saw what transpired. "Quick," she hissed from the door. "Get the drugget over it again!"

They scrambled to cover the secret box again, settling it with only enough time for Sherlock to lean against the mantelpiece, schooling his expression to show languid boredom rather than intense disappointment.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes." There was more respect in Cooper's voice, a kind of defernetial quality that most law enforcement officers adopted the first time they had seen Sherlock proven right. The sense of awe vanished quickly, usually soon after Sherlock was rude to them again. But for now, it was mildly pleasing and certainly convient for Cooper to be more amiable toward the consulting detective. "Well, he's confessed, all right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most inexcusable conduct."

The agent's beefy was red with anger as the officer who had been guarding the door, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

"I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure," he insisted. "The young woman came to the door last evening- got the wrong address, she did. And then we got talking. It's lonesome, when you're on duty here all day, and-" He stopped and flushed.

Sherlock sighed in irritation, but was very pleased his suspicions were well on their way to being proven correct. "Well, what happened then?"

"She wanted to see where the crime was done- had read about it in the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the floor in a dead faint. I ran to the back and got some water, but I couldn't bring her to. Then I went round the corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off- ashamed of herself, I dare say, and dared not face me." It all came tumbling out of the officer's mouth, words bouncing off and around each other.

"How about moving that drugget?" Cooper asked, eyes narrowed. When he saw the young man had no idea what he meant, he sighed.

"The rug, love," Irene said helpfully, a smile crossing her face. Sherlock was unsure how to categorize it- the expression certainly wasn't kind, but it wasn't malicious either. Predatory, perhaps.

If possible, the young man blushed deeper. "Well, ma'am- uh, no, um- sir, it was a bit rumpled, just a bit, when I came back. You see, she fell on it, and it's a on a slippery floor with nothing much to keep it in place. And- well, I straightened it out afterwards."

Sherlock grinned suddenly, feeling victorious. "Has this woman only been here once?"

The officer's - MacPherson's eyes flickered between Sherlock and Cooper. "Yes, sir, only once."

"Who was she?" Cooper asked. Sherlock leaned in a bit closer, eager to hear the answer himself.

MacPherson shook his head. "Don't know the name, sir. She said she was here to see about piano lessons for her son, and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, high class young woman, sir."

"Tall? Pretty?" John asked. "Describe her."

"Yes, sir," MacPherson said immediately. He was looking slightly overwhelmed from the questions coming in from all sides. "She was- well, I suppose you might say she was pretty. Perhaps, um, some would, um, say she was very pretty. She had pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was no harm in letting her just put her head through the door."

Sherlock let out a long breath through his nose. "I believe the good doctor said to _describe_ her, MacPherson. _Not_ give excuses for your actions, but _tell us what she looked like._"

"Blonde," the man said immediately. "Um- white."

"As she would be if she had blonde hair," Sherlock said impatiently. "How was she dressed?" _Am I going to have to go over all of this with him?_

"Quiet, sir—a long coat down to her feet." It was the work of a moment for Sherlock to remember a young woman with splashes of mud on her lower calves, a pattern that would only occur with a particularly long coat. Just one more question-

"What time was it?" And John asked it for him.

At least this one was easy for the officer to answer. "It was just growing dusk at the time. The streetlamps came on just as I came back with the brandy."

That was well enough for Sherlock- he had gotten the information he had needed. "Very well," he said, flashing both the officer and Cooper an insincere grin. "We have work to do elsewhere." With that, he opened the door of the study, allowing Irene to leave, then John, before exiting himself.

"Where are you going?" demanded Cooper.

Sherlock turned to face him, a smirk on his face. ""Excellent!" said he. "You will be relieved to hear that there will be no war, that Thomas Harper will suffer no set-back in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the President will have no indignities to deal with, and that with a little tact and management upon our part, nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly incident. Laters."

* * *

**If you couldn't tell, much of this is adapted from ****_The Adventure of the Second Stain,_**** and none of it belongs to me. **

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'd be lying if I said more would be coming soon, but this will be finished within a relatively short number of chapters. (I have 4 WIPs right now, school, a job, college apps, and clubs so I'm a bit stretched out)**

**Leave a review, if you could. See you all soon!**


	7. The Letters

**Hello, readers dear!**

**This chapter wasn't as long a wait as the last because I am feeling the itch to end this story. It will probably be this chapter and maybe one more, and then we're done!**

**Enjoy! Plenty of big revelations here.**

_**Chapter Six**_

"So you've solved it then," John said, as blunt as ever.

Sherlock gave him a thin lipped smile. "Not quite. There are some points that remain as dark as ever. We need to call on Mrs. Helen Harper."

Irene had gathered what had happened from the information given in the home of the murdered Mr. Edward Lucase. "Do you want me to call her to my house?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "Let us call on her."

Again, all three of them piled into the car. "The Harper's, Alice," Irene said distractedly. "Do you think she'll admit it?"

"I should be asking you that question," replied Sherlock evenly. "You know her nature better than I."

That amused Irene. "Then my opinion is yes, she will."

"So the wife did it?" John asked. "She was the woman who came?"

Irene's eyes flicked to Sherlock, then to John. "I actually think she's the reason Lucase is dead."

Something Sherlock had always admired about John was the number of expressions the man could produce in only a few seconds. "Oh?" There it was- incredulity, surprise, and perhaps a hint of willingness to believe.

"Think, John," Sherlock ordered. "What do we know about Lucase? About his wife?"

"Lucase had reason to take the documents and his wife was both nuts and jealous," answered John. "But if Helen Harper was at the house last night-"

Irene held up a slender finger. "Consider the possibility that last night wasn't the first time she was at the house."

The furrow in John's brow deepened as he made the connections. "Then... if she was the reason Lucase's wife killed him it was because... because the wife thought that Lucase was sleeping with her!"

The smile stretching across Irene's face had more than a hint of iciness to it. "And how would she have drawn that conclusion?"

"If she had seen them together," John said, catching on. His words were coming quicker. "Helen Harper goes to the house for some reason, because she's invovled with the documents and he had them, and Lucase's wife sees them together. She goes mad, kills Lucase after Helen leaves. Then because Helen knew where the docments were, she goes back to the crime scene and gets them back!"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Bravo, John. I'll make a detective out of you yet. Irene, you should take the lead with confronting her. She will most likely submit to your authority."

"Excellent," Irene purred, letting out a little laugh. "I'm rather curious to know what kind of blackmail Lucase had on her."

"So you can use it?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

Irene bared her teeth in a grin. "Of course."

* * *

The Harper house was as large and as empty has it had been before- Thomas Harper was the office, apparently, and efforts had been made to give the impression that nothing was out of place in the neighborhood, so the plice presence had been significantly scarce.

When they rang the bell, the butler answered and, recognizing them from before, and perhaps Irene from other nights, allowed them entrance.

"We're here to see Helen," Irene said smoothly. "Fetch her to the sitting room please, Jacob." It was plain that Jacob was under orders to obey Ms. Reler. He nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and vanished into the house. Irene led them through tastefully decorated hallways to the sitting room.

The sitting room quite obviously screamed that it had been decorated by a wealthy woman with expensive, understated tastes. Sherlock was aware that this room had probably hosted foreign dignitaries, political friends, political rivals, and the crème de la crème of American society. It was a light, airy room, in gold and cream and underlying hints of sky blue and a rosy pink. There was a pink veined marble mantle decorated with expensive jeweled eggs and pictures of the Harpers with people in suits and ties. All the furniture was antique, with a card table that Sherlock would have dated to about the Revolutionary War off to one side- there was no dust but the position told Sherlock that it was too look at and not to use.

_Helen Harper is rich. She has been groomed to take this position, or one like it, all her life. Spoiled little girl, probably went to an Ivy League or another expensive private university with the intention of getting a useless arts degree and meeting her future husband. The criteria: rich, handsome, and on the fast track to political success at a young age. _

Irene seated herself on an ornate chair, not quite like the one in her own sitting room but one that was quite similar. Sherlock stood behind her, and John stood off to her side.

They could hear the creaking of the house and hurried footsteps as Helen Harper approached. As she neared, her voice became legible. "... no one, Jacob, understand? If Thomas comes for some reason, which he shouldn't, tell him I'm busy and I'll be out in a moment. And if that detective comes by, take him to the blue room and offer him something to drink while he waits. You're dismissed." There was a pause, and the door opened and Helen Harper walked in.

This time there was no subservient look to her face- no, Helen was in her domain, where she was queen. Delicate features were impassive and set, the sensitive mouth was firm. Her blonde hair was pulled back severely, her blue eyes were still lovely but there were also cold. Fear still lurked in behind her mask, fear that Irene could almost sense. They had been right- she had her.

"Helen-" Irene started, but alight with anger the woman started speaking.

"How dare you! I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visits to you a secret. Further more you come with _them_ into my house. What if my husband should think that I was intruding into his affairs? And you compromise me by coming here- people know what you _do_-"

"That will be _enough._" Irene's voice was cold. "I have come to give you one chance to avoid all scandal. Give me the papers, _now._"

The beautiful face drained of all color. Helen's eyes glazed, and as she tottered Sherlock thought for a moment that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and indignation chased every other expression from her features. "You insult me."

Sherlock made a derisive noise. "You insult our intelligence, Mrs. Harper. The papers."

Helen moved toward the door, backing toward it as her eye dared between Sherlock and Irene. "The butler will show you out."

Irene stood. "If you call for Jacob, my dear, all my very earnest efforts to avoid a scandal will have been for nothing. I will be unable to help you." Her tone changed, and she moved closer to Helen. Now she sounded softer, cajoling. "If you work with me, I can arrange everything for you."

"And if you work against me, I will expose you," Sherlock said coldly. When Helen tried to meet his eyes defiantly, she had to look away in fear.

"You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr. Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know something. What is it that you know?" Her voice was shrill.

"Look- can we all sit down?" asked John. "You-" he gestured to Helen- "are going to fall. Sit. We can discuss this calmly."

It defused the tension a bit- Helen stalked over to a couch and didn't as much sit in it as collapse into it, while Irene returned to her chair and John and Sherlock took the other couch.

"I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes," Helen said, addressing him rather than turn that tone to Irene. "And then you will need to leave.

That appealed, strangely enough, to Sherlock's sense of theatrics. There was a rush in being forced to prove himself- a challenge that he always rose to. "One is enough, Mrs. Harper. I know of your visit to Edward Lucase, of your giving him this document, of your _ingenious_ return to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could speak. "You are mad, Mr. Holmes–you are mad!" she cried, at last.

He pulled out his phone, quickly navigating through the menus until he found the picture he had saved the day before. He held out the phone to her. It was a photo of the smiling couple- Mr. and Mrs. Harper standing with the President in a recent press event. "The policeman at the scene can identify you."

It wasn't true, of course, but she didn't know that. The beautiful woman paled even farther, and a hand fluttered to her throat.

"Come now, Mrs. Harper," Sherlock said derisively. "You have the letter. The matter may still be adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance."

She just glared at him. "I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion."

Irene sighed. "Then I'm sorry, Helen. We've done our best for you." Her phone beeped- a text. Irene checked it, face bored. "And there we go. Agent Cooper is bringing your husband back now- we've already told him we know where the documents are."

Irene rose elegantly from the seat in one fluid motion. "Sherlock, John, I'm assuming you'll wait for them here?"

There was something breaking in Helen's face when she looked at Irene. "Please," she whispered. "Ms. Reler."

Irene stalked over to the woman, brushing fingers that Sherlock knew were always cool under her chin and lifting her head. "Poor dear," Irene cooed. "What do you think will happen when he finds out? The scandal would be a _terrible_ thing."

Hands clutched at Irene's wrist. "Please," Helen whimpered again. "He'll divorce me eventually, he'll find a reason-"

"Give me the letter," Irene ordered. "And there's a sweet thing." When Helen hesitated, Irene tightened her grip. Sherlock could see a pained look cross Helen's face, and glanced at John to see the soldier had noticed the same thing. "Who has your best interests at heart, my dear?"

There were tears about to spill from the large blue eyes. "You," whispered Helen.

"Who is going to make it all better?" demanded Irene, voice hardly louder than a whisper, but still strong.

"You," answered Helen again, unable to look away.

"And the only way I can do that is if you obey me," Irene said, voice caressing the words. "Now go fetch the letter, my dear." Irene released Helen's chin, allowing the American woman to rise.

"Yes, Mrs. Reler," Helen murmured, a phrase that had the repeated ring of habit. "Right away."

She left quickly, taking small measure steps that clicked neatly on the wood flooring. When she turned to close the door, Sherlock could see a kind of peace on her face, determination and peace.

Irene sauntered over to where he was standing, navy blue eyes confident. "She just needed a bit of persuasion," said Irene, voice still the same blend of honey candy and leather whip. Her eyes grabbed at Sherlock's, holding him to her. If he wasn't mistaken, she lingered over the last word, allowing her mouth to bloom open a second long before she closed it.

He asked his question silently. _Why did she look the way she did?_

It was evident that she caught the inquiry. She drew closer to Sherlock, lifting a hand that hovered just barely over his arm. "She gave up control," Irene said, voice dipping lower. "It's in my hands now. She trusts me. Helen hates making decisions- this is a weight off her chest."

He nodded once, sharply to say that he understood. Irene let a single finger trail down his arm, then turned away with a sigh when he didn't respond.

The click of heels on wood came back to them. The door opened, and Helen slipped in with the look of a thief, even in her own house. She hurried over to Irene, handing over a bundle of papers. "Here," she said, glancing only once at John and Sherlock. "Take them."

Irene smiled and accepted the documents, stroking Helen's hands as she did so. "Excellent, darling," she cooed. "Now go wipe your face, your husband will be here soon. You'll want to look pretty when he kisses you after find the documents."

"Thank you," Helen breathed. "I'm so sorry."

The smile Irene gave her client was beatific. "You did so good," she said. "Why take them in the first place?"

"Lucase," Helen answered, a rigid helplessness entering her voice. "He- he had pictures. Of me. From college."

Irene's face hardened inperceptablely. Sherlock was sure he was the only one in the room who caught it. "It's all over now, sweet. Go wash your face. I'll be leaving as soon as I sort things out with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson."

Helen obeyed, shuffling out of the room was bid. Irene's mouth was tight as she stalked back to where Sherlock and John were standing, her eyes fierce.

"_You're upset," remarks Sherlock, examining his returning lover with searching eyes. From his position on her bed, he can see that her mouth is drawn tight and her eyes are furious. "Who did it?"_

_Irene shakes her head brusquely, letting long curls swing at her back. She approaches the bed and turns, coiling her hair around her wrist to present her back to him. "Someone tried to blackmail me today."_

_He obligingly unzips her dress."Oh?" Sherlock asks, only half-aware his voice has developed a dangerous tone. He is protective of those he deemed his- he has been told more than once that when plotting revenge upon persons known or unknown his face takes on a cruel cast and his voice freezes._

_He has become a killer recently. It only slightly bothers him that he is now contemplating what level of disservice done to Irene would warrant his slipping into a dark apartment in the dead of night with a gun or even his bare hands._

_As he is thinking Irene slips out of the dress, revealing pale shoulders and a delicately curved waist that precedes the flare of her hips. The white of her back is interrupted by the strip of black lace that is the clasp of her bra, and ends where her panties contrast delightfully against her skin. They soon go, but the heels stay. His belly coils with the familiar anticipation as she sits on the edge of her bed._

_Her head is ducked as she removes her necklace, but she glances up from underneath her lashes to give him a look. "I can take care of myself, Sherlock."_

"_I never said you couldn't," Sherlock says idly. "What happened?"_

_Her smile turns humorless. "He very quickly learned the severity of his mistake." Both earrings are placed delicately on the table._

"_In what way?" He is wondering if her idea of punishment is harsher than his. _

"_I'm going to ruin him," Irene says, not a trace of remorse in her voice. "I started tonight. By next month he'll be in disgrace and by the time a year has passed, his lack of money and his unfortunate coke habit will see him buried in either his debt or his grave."_

_She stretches, back arching off the bed as her hands cross at the wrist. "It's been a long day."_

_Sherlock palms a breast, swiping a thumb over the engorged nipple before letting his hand continue down her waist. "Are you tired?"_

"_Yes," Irene tells him honestly. "You are topping tonight. No arguments."_

_He smirks. "Do I look like I would argue?"_

_She smiles up at him lazily, with real pleasure this time. "Fuck me."_

He can't fuck her here in this immaculate sitting room. Instead he cocks his head to the side, a silently plea for explanation.

"Even back when Helen Harper was Helen Lafore she had a taste for women and a taste for dominatrices," said Irene tersely. "I'm guessing that Lucase had pictures of her in rather compromising positions and was ready to use them to milk her for all she was worth."

John's brow had furrowed. "She would betray her country because a few lewd photos?" Sherlock could, from a purely analytical sense, appreciate his companion's confusion. Patriotic under an occasional facade of disinterest, Captan John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was more than a bit incredulous at the motives that could drive a person to turn traitor.

"She's one of the elite," Irene said, something that wasn't quite scorn dripping into her voice. "They'll do anything to keep their status, and keeping a status that wonderful and elaborate requires sacrifices." She pressed the documents into Sherlock's hands. "I'm leaving now."

He wanted to press her to him, to feel her body heat. Instead he nods, his only show of feeling or emotion in the touch of their fingers as the documents change hands. Sudden heat flashed in her eyes, and then she turned and left the room.

"What did you think, John?" asked Sherlock, taking a seat and stowing the documents in his jacket pocket.

They discussed the case briefly- John required a bit of an explanation that on any other day Sherlock would have be more than happy to give (his constant need to seek reassurance of his own self worth (measured by Sherlock for Sherlock by his intelligence) from the person he admires most (look at this his man, this short and stocky doctor who didn't drop out of uni two years in and who has never tried drugs in his life and actually cares about his only sibling) often results in long monologues of his deductions) but today it all feels like a bit much.

Thoughts of Irene were shoved down as hard as he could as Sherlock tried to focus on the sounds of cars in the streets.

Helen reentered the room after a few silent moments, her face remade-up and every hair in place. She pertched on the edge of a chair, warily watching John and Sherlock.

"Did you have any other options?" asked John after a moment.

"It wasn't just photos. It was a letter of mine, Dr. Watson, an indiscreet letter written before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive, stupid girl," Helen Harper said bitterly. "I'm sure she told you about- about me."

John nodded. Helen's jaw tightened, in anger or in fear Sherlock could not tell.

"I meant no harm. You know how it is- if that letter got out, got to the press, they would make me a criminal. It would ruin Thomas' entire career. Had he read that letter, his confidence would have been for ever destroyed. It was years ago- back when I thought I might choose something different."

"Do you know how it came to light again?" asked John.

Helen shook her head. "Three weeks ago, I heard from this man, Lucase, that the letter had passed into his hands, and that he would send a copy to my husband before sending it to the press. I begged him, I pleaded, I- he was merciless. He said that he would only return my letter if I would bring him a certain document which he described in my husband's safe. He had some spy in the office who told him about it. Put yourself in my position, Doctor! What was I supposed to do?" She had grown passionate, with color blooming in her cheeks.

Sherlock could have told John that it was no use, but the older man frowned and leaned forward to continue the discussion. "Take your husband about it," he suggested bluntly.

There was a sneer on that beautiful face. "What world are you living in?" she asked. "On the one side my reputation and my husband's reputation is ruined; on the other, terrible as it seemed to take official documents, they just disappear and nothing happens. I borrowed his key and Lucase made a duplicate. I opened his safe, took the paper, and walked down Godolphin Street with them in my purse."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to lean forward in his chair. "What happened there?"

"I knocked at the front door as we had agreed. Lucase opened it. I followed him into his room, leaving the hall door open behind me."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, interrupting.

Helen's hand rose self-conciously to her hair. "You wouldn't understand. I didn't trust him, I didn't want to be alone with him. So I left myself an escape route."

"Was anyone loitering near the place as you were going in?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock. "A woman?"

A curious glance was directed John's way. "Yes, Dr. Watson. I'm quite sure I remember that there was a woman outside when I was coming." _Extremely formal language suggests that she noticed the woman because she found her attractive. Interesting. _

"And what happened then?" asked Sherlock, a sardonic tone in his voice. "He dangled the letter and the pictures in front of you and refused to give them up?"

Helen shook her head. "He had my letter on his desk; I handed him the document. He gave me the letter. Then I heard the doorbell ring, and it sounded like someone tried the knob. He'd forgotten to unlock it- whoever it was barged right in. I saw him put everything under the carpet- the square rug he had, the papers were all under it in a little hidden compartment."

"Yes, yes, we know," Sherlock said, heaving a sigh. _She obviously doesn't think we're very smart._

Helen didn't quite glare. "It was a woman. A French woman. She started screaming and hitting him- I left. The door was wide open, so..." she shrugged. "I found out he was dead next morning in the paper.

John shook his head. "You're obviously not torn up about it."

The gaze the blonde woman turned a cold gaze on John. "He was blackmailing me. I feel no regret."

"Even though his wife killed him because she thought you were his mistress?" John asked incredulously.

She blinked once. "I had my own troubles. I'm hardly going to cry over a man who tried to make me betray my husband and my country. I woke up the next morning with my own problems. Half the FBI was crawling over my carpets and my husband's boss was lecturing him in the study."

Sherlock became aware of the footsteps and voices coming down the hall an instant before Helen did. "And there he is now," Sherlock pushing himself off the couch with a burst of energy. John stood as well, and Helen was just getting to her feet when the door opened.

Immediately she was making her way to her husband's side, beaming. "The detectives have wonderful news for us, darling."

Accompanying Thomas Harper were SSA Cooper and Mr. Bellinger. The older man had his umbrella with him despite the clear, if windy, day outside- the sight of it alone would have made Sherlock scowl if he hadn't been more concerned with Thomas Harper. Did the man know that his wife had been the one to nearly orchestrate his political downfall? At the very least, Sherlock was sure that if his connections lost an iota of power anytime before the next season, Harper would be removed from his position.

However the man greeted his wife happily, slipping an arm around her waist. "Is that so?"

Sherlock nodded once curtly, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket to pull out the small packet of papers. "Here you are."

Thomas Harper took the documents with an expression on his face that Sherlock was quite sure Irene had seen more than once. "Thank God," the man whispered. He untied it quickly, scanning the contents. "These are the originals!"

The austere face of Mr. Bellinger contorted itself into a smile. "Excellent. Mr. Holmes, what will your compensation be?"

"Protection," Sherlock said, refusing to look at John. "For her return to Britain."

The smile immediately dropped from the wrinkled face, and the blue-veined hands tightened on the head of the umbrella. "She is an international criminal!" he hissed.

"And she was instrumental in solving this case," Sherlock said smoothly. "Say what you will, but Irene Adler- or Diane Reler- is more beneficial as an ally than as an enemy. And I would gather that you would rather her be up to her old tricks in another country."

John sighed. "And I suspect that refusing him would prompt her to blackmail your government into it. Maybe ours too."

The old mouth tightened, and the nostrils of the old man flared. "We'll contact Ms. Reler and sort the whole mess out," he growled. "Anything more?"

"We'll be returning to our hotel now," Sherlock said, allowing the ghost of a smile to cross his face. "Tickets back to England for as soon as you could arrange it would be-" His phone sighed dramatically.

_She knows that I'd still be talking with them. Irene... your sense of humor would be amusing if it wasn't constantly directed at me._

He pulled out his phone and checked her message.

_Dinner at my house tonight, and at the President's Ball tomorrow. You can be my date. And I have a friend for Johnny boy._

Sherlock chuckled. "My apologies. Tickets for three days from now would be preferable." He gathered his coat and John followed suit. Goodbyes, especially to ungrateful people, were not his preferred style of exit-making.

* * *

**And so ends Chapter Six. **

**As I said, not as long but just enough to tie everything into a lovely little bow case-wise. The next chapter will be all the goodbyes, and then this short story will be over!**

**As always, reviews are welcome, here and on tumblr. If you enjoyed this Adlock story, a selection of others can be found in both my writings and in my favorites. **

**See you in a while!**


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